Page:The poems of Richard Watson Gilder, Gilder, 1908.djvu/147

Rh II

What is her playing like?

'T is like a bird

Who, singing in a wild wood, never knows

That its lone melody is heard

By wandering mortal, who forgets his heavy woes.

ADELE AUS DER OHE

(LISZT)

I

is her playing like?

'T is like the wind in wintry northern valleys.

A dream-pause;—then it rallies

And once more bends the pine-tops, suddenly shatters

The ice-crags, whitely scatters

The spray along the paths of avalanches,

Startles the blood, and every visage blanches.

II

Half-sleeps the wind above a swirling pool

That holds the trembling shadow of the trees;

Where waves too wildly rush to freeze

Tho' all the air is cool;

And hear, O, hear, while musically call

With nearer tinkling sounds, or distant roar,

Voices of fall on fall;

And now a swelling blast, that dies; and now—no more, no more.

(CHOPIN)

, what celestial art!

And can sweet thoughts become pure tone and float,

All music, note by note,

Into the trancèd mind and quivering heart!