Chopin

A dream of interlinking hands, of feetTireless to spin the unseen, fairy woof,Of the entangling waltz. Bright eyebeams meet,Gay laughter echoes from the vaulted roof.Warm perfumes rise; the soft unflickering glowOf branching lights sets off the changeful charmsOf glancing gems, rich stuffs, dazzling snowOf necks unkerchieft, and bare, clinging arms.Hark to the music! How beneath the strainOf reckless revelry, vibrates and sobsOne fundamental chord of constant pain,The pulse-beat of the poet's heart that throbs.So yearns, though all the dancing waves rejoice,The troubled sea's disconsolate, deep voice.

Who shall proclaim the golden fable falseOf Orpheus' miracles? This subtle strainAbove our prose-world's sordid loss and gainLightly uplifts us. With the rhythmic waltz,The lyric prelude, the nocturnal songOf love and languor, varied visions rise,That melt and blend to our enchanted eyes.The Polish poet who sleeps silenced long,The seraph-souled musician, breathes againEternal eloquence, immortal pain.Revived the exalted face we know so well,The illuminated eyes, the fragile frame,Slowly consuming with its inward flame,We stir not, speak not, lest we break the spell.

A voice was needed, sweet and true and fineAs the sad spirit of the evening breeze,Throbbing with human passion, yet divineAs the wild bird's untutored melodies.A voice for him 'neath twilight heavens dim,Who mourneth for his dead, while round him fallThe wan and noiseless leaves. A voice for himWho sees the first green sprout, who hears the callOf the first robin on the first spring day.A voice for all whom Fate hath set apart,Who, still misprized, must perish by the way,Longing with love, for that they lack the artOf their own soul's expression. For all theseSing the unspoken hope, the vague, sad reveries.

Then Nature shaped a poet's heart--a lyreFrom out whose chords the lightest breeze that blowsDrew trembling music, wakening sweet desire.How shall she cherish him? Behold! she throwsThis precious, fragile treasure in the whirlOf seething passions; he is scourged and stung,Must dive in storm-vext seas, if but one pearlOf art or beauty therefrom may be wrung.No pure-browed pensive nymph his Muse shall be,An amazon of thought with sovereign eyes,Whose kiss was poison, man-brained, worldly-wise,Inspired that elfin, delicate harmony.Rich gain for us! But with him is it well?The poet who must sound earth, heaven, and hell!