They catch but the “rhythmical ring of the phrase.”
She sings, but they dream not a message is borne on
The breath of the sigh, while its “cadence” they praise.
Her saddest laments are “melodious minors”
To them, and her jests are but “notes marked staccato”;
Her tenderest pleadings but “themes well developed,”
Her rage—but “a climax of chords animato.”
In vain she endeavors to rouse their perceptions
By touching their brows with her soul-stirring hand
They measure her fingers, their fairness admire,