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.
ADELE AUS DER OHE
(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, suddenly 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
Tho' all the air is cool;
And hear, O, 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)
Ah, what celestial art!
And can sweet thoughts become pure tone and float,
All music, note by note,
Into the trancèd mind and quivering heart!
