| |
I JUST as my fingers on these keys | |
| Make music, so the self-same sounds | |
| On my spirit make a music too. | |
| |
| Music is feeling then, not sound; | |
| And thus it is that what I feel, | 5 |
| Here in this room, desiring you, | |
| |
| Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk, | |
| Is music. It is like the strain | |
| Waked in the elders by Susanna: | |
| |
| Of a green evening, clear and warm, | 10 |
| She bathed in her still garden, while | |
| The red-eyed elders, watching, felt | |
| |
| The basses of their being throb | |
| In witching chords, and their thin blood | |
| Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna. | 15 |
| |
II In the green water, clear and warm, | |
| Susanna lay. | |
| She searched | |
| The touch of springs, | |
| And found | 20 |
| Concealed imaginings. | |
| She sighed | |
| For so much melody. | |
| |
| Upon the bank she stood | |
| In the cool | 25 |
| Of spent emotions. | |
| She felt, among the leaves, | |
| The dew | |
| Of old devotions. | |
| |
| She walked upon the grass, | 30 |
| Still quavering. | |
| The winds were like her maids, | |
| On timid feet, | |
| Fetching her woven scarves, | |
| Yet wavering. | 35 |
| |
| A breath upon her hand | |
| Muted the night. | |
| She turned— | |
| A cymbal crashed, | |
| And roaring horns. | 40 |
| |
III Soon, with a noise like tambourines, | |
| Came her attendant Byzantines. | |
| |
| They wondered why Susanna cried | |
| Against the elders by her side: | |
| |
| And as they whispered, the refrain | 45 |
| Was like a willow swept by rain. | |
| |
| Anon, their lamps’ uplifted flame | |
| Revealed Susanna and her shame. | |
| |
| And then the simpering Byzantines, | |
| Fled, with a noise like tambourines. | 50 |
| |
IV Beauty is momentary in the mind— | |
| The fitful tracing of a portal; | |
| But in the flesh it is immortal. | |
| |
| The body dies; the body’s beauty lives. | |
| So evenings die, in their green going, | 55 |
| A wave, interminably flowing. | |
| So gardens die, their meek breath scenting | |
| The cowl of Winter, done repenting. | |
| So maidens die, to the auroral | |
| Celebration of a maiden’s choral. | 60 |
| |
| Susanna’s music touched the bawdy strings | |
| Of those white elders; but, escaping, | |
| Left only Death’s ironic scraping. | |
| Now, in its immortality, it plays | |
| On the clear viol of her memory, | 65 |
| And makes a constant sacrament of praise. | |
| |
