6. Upstairs Piano

O dull confounded Thing, You will not sing Though I distress your keys With thumps; in ecstasies Of wrath, at some mis-said Word of the deathless Dead!

Chopin or dear Mozart, How must it break your heart To hear this Beast refuse The choice gifts of the Muse! And turn your airy thought With clumsiness to nought.

I am guilty too, for I Have let the fine thing by; And spoilt high graciousness With a note more or less; Whose wandering fingers know Not surely where they go; Whose mind most weak, most poor, Your fire may not endure That’s passionate, that’s pure.

And yet, and yet, men pale (Late under Passchendaele Or some such blot on earth) Feel once again the birth Of joy in them, and know That Beauty’s not a show Of lovely things long past.

And stricken men at last Take heart and glimpse the light, Grow strong and comforted With eyes that challenge night, With proud-poised gallant head, And new-born keen delight.

Beethoven, Schumann, Bach: These men do greatly lack, And you have greatly given. The fervent blue of Heaven They will see with purer eyes-- Suffering has made them wise; Music shall make them sweet.

If they shall see the stars More clearly after their wars, That is a good wage. Yours is a heritage Most noble and complete. And if we, blind, have gone Where a great glory shone, Or deaf, where angels sang; Forgive us, for you, too, A little blind were, knew Of weakness, once, the pang; Of darkness, once, the fear.

And so, forgive this dear Pig-hearted chest of strings, And me, whose heart not sings Nor triumphs as do yours Within the Heavenly doors-- Walking the clear unhindered level floors.