II
What is her playing like?
'T is like a bird
Who, singing in a wild wood, never knows
That its lone melody is heard
By wandering mortal, who forgets his heavy woes.
ADELE AUS DER OHE
(LISZT)
I
What is her playing like?
'T is like the wind in wintry northern valleys.
A dream-pause;—then it rallies
And once more bends the pine-tops, suddenly shatters
The ice-crags, whitely scatters
The spray along the paths of avalanches,
Startles the blood, and every visage blanches.
II
Half-sleeps the wind above a swirling pool
That holds the trembling shadow of the trees;
Where waves too wildly rush to freeze
Tho' all the air is cool;
And hear, O, hear, while musically call
With nearer tinkling sounds, or distant roar,
Voices of fall on fall;
And now a swelling blast, that dies; and now—no more, no more.
(CHOPIN)
Ah, what celestial art!
And can sweet thoughts become pure tone and float,
All music, note by note,
