I
WHAT is her playing like?
I ask—while dreaming here under her music's power.
'T is like the leaves of the dark passion-flower
Which grows on a strong vine whose roots, oh, deep they sink,
Deep in the ground, that flower's pure life to drink.
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.