(LISZT)
I
WHAT 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, 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
Though all the air is cool;
And hear, oh 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)
I
AH, what celestial art!
And can sweet thoughts become pure tone and float,
All music, into the trancéd mind and heart!
Her hand scarce stirs the singing, wiry metal —.
Hear from the wild-rose fall each perfect petal!
II
And can we have, on earth, of heaven the whole!
Heard thoughts —the soul of inexpressible thought;
Roses of sound
That strew melodious leaves upon the silent ground;
And music that is music's very soul,
Without one touch of earth,—
Too tender, even, for sorrow, and too bright for mirth!