Beneath the player's finger; he was flushed with
The tempest of applause; with toying lilt
Echoing laughter shock; a lackey's voice
Trickled away, a girl's voice cooed and chirped;
And a broad stream of townsfolk suddenly
Began to surge along the corridors
With carpet-muffled gait . . .
The night was clear,
The azure frosty sky breathed on my face,
And piercing was the glisten of the snow.
There in a torrent from the staircase swayed
Blurred masses of a motley city crowd.
Cabs clattered on and carriage doors were slammed,
Somewhere the ambling trot of horses faded,
Merged in bewildering hubbub of the streets.
(ii.)
Oh, marvellous, oh magical quartette,
Setting the soul astir as genius can,
Rousing the spirit on to manful strivings!
Its mighty breath still fares along with me;
Ardour, youth's tempest, blitheness, melancholy,
Laden with wistfulness and suffering,
Dreams of young escapades and languishing,
Enticing musters of love-brimming words,
Placid noblesse, and then harsh storms again,
Singly the strains unloosen in my soul;
And then,—that note that ends itself in horror,
As if it were left hanging on a height!. . .
