To a Pianist
When others’ fingers touch the keys
Then most doleful threnodies
Chase about the air, and run
Like Pandæmonium begun.
Rhythm strained and false accord
In a ceaseless stream are poured;
Then sighs are heard, and men depart
To seek the sage physician’s art,
Or silence, and a little ease,
When others’ fingers touch the keys.
When your fingers touch the keys
Hark, soft sounds of summer seas
In a melody most fair
Whisper through the pleasant air,
Or a winding mountain stream
Glitters to the pale moonbeam,
Or a breeze doth stir the tops
Of springtime larches in a copse,
Or the winds are loosed and hurled
About the wonder-stricken world
With immortal harmonies,
When your fingers touch the keys.