Poems (Blake)/The Artist's Touch
THE ARTIST'S TOUCH.
Under the artist's flying hands The white keys rise, the white keys fall; Now sudden sweet, now trumpet loud, Above the heads in silence bowed, The brave chords fill the listening hall.
But if the touch be low and soft, Or if he strike with flame and fire, Through all the changes deftly rung, The soul of music finds a tongue To lift its message high and higher;
For major chord and minor note Not of themselves the tones prolong; But as the rent and broken seals Through which the master's soul reveals His radiant thought embalmed in song.
Dear Lord! Thine instruments are we; Under thy hands we wait alone! And if thy touch bring loss or gain, And if it lead through joy or pain, With still small voice, or trumpet tone,—
We may not care to ask or know, Nor heed if sad or glad it be, If, in the end, thy thought may roll Through every chord of heart and soul, And bear its harmony to Thee.