To a Pianist

When others' fingers touch the keys Then most doleful threnodies Chase about the air, and run Like Pandaemonium 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.