I THOUGHT that only God could make the rain, But when you laid your hands upon the keys The room was full of gentle harmonies— An eager shower pattering on the pane, The hushed and wistful tread Of rain at night that marches overhead, The kind, grey rain that stills the windy trees.
I thought that only God could make a star, But I have heard your fingers build the sky, Have watched the yellow dusk of autumn die And night creep up the east immense and far, Then glittering and bright, I’ve seen the Hunter girt with silver light, Orion with his shining hounds sweep by.
I thought that only God could make the sea, But in your music the unbounded deep Is gathered up as in a treasure heap— Calm spaces, rocks where singing tides run free, The cloudy-emerald foam Ships on the world’s dim verge, far, far from home, And pools unrippled where the hushed winds sleep.
TEMPO
MY body could play delicate tunes, Music exquisite and thin, But I must keep it in its case Like a violin.
A Scherzo prances in my blood, Mercurial and quick; I pirouette—the box snaps tight With a malicious click.
A Saraband is not for me, It makes the varnish crack. I must play a grave, grave tune Slow and elegiac!