A Spring Harvest/To a Pianist

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TO A PIANIST

When others' fingers touch the keysThen most doleful threnodiesChase about the air, and runLike Pandæmonium begun.Rhythm strained and false accordIn a ceaseless stream are poured;Then sighs are heard, and men departTo seek the sage physician's art,Or silence, and a little ease,When others' fingers touch the keys.
When your fingers touch the keysHark, soft sounds of summer seasIn a melody most fairWhisper through the pleasant air,Or a winding mountain streamGlitters to the pale moonbeam,Or a breeze doth stir the topsOf springtime larches in a copse,Or the winds are loosed and hurledAbout the wonder-stricken worldWith immortal harmonies,When your fingers touch the keys.
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