Upstairs Piano

O dull confounded Thing,
You will not sing
Though I distress your keys
With thumps; in ecstasies
Of wrath, at some mis-said
Word of the deathless Dead!

Chopin or dear Mozart,
How must it break your heart
To hear this Beast refuse
The choice gifts of the Muse!
And turn your airy thought
With clumsiness to nought.

I am guilty too, for I
Have let the fine thing by;
And spoilt high graciousness
With a note more or less;
Whose wandering fingers know
Not surely where they go;
Whose mind most weak, most poor,
Your fire may not endure
That’s passionate, that’s pure.

And yet, and yet, men pale
(Late under Passchendaele
Or some such blot on earth)
Feel once again the birth
Of joy in them, and know
That Beauty’s not a show
Of lovely things long past.

And stricken men at last
Take heart and glimpse the light,
Grow strong and comforted
With eyes that challenge night,
With proud-poised gallant head,
And new-born keen delight.

Beethoven, Schumann, Bach:
These men do greatly lack,
And you have greatly given.
The fervent blue of Heaven
They will see with purer eyes--
Suffering has made them wise;
Music shall make them sweet.

If they shall see the stars
More clearly after their wars,
That is a good wage.
Yours is a heritage
Most noble and complete.
And if we, blind, have gone
Where a great glory shone,
Or deaf, where angels sang;
Forgive us, for you, too,
A little blind were, knew
Of weakness, once, the pang;
Of darkness, once, the fear.

And so, forgive this dear
Pig-hearted chest of strings,
And me, whose heart not sings
Nor triumphs as do yours
Within the Heavenly doors--
Walking the clear unhindered level floors.