Poems (Hardy)/A memory of Beethoven's sonata, op. 27:1

by Irenè Hardy

A MEMORY OF BEETHOVEN'S
SONATA, OPUS 27:1

N. V.

A FACE impassioned over ivory keys,
An open window and a saffron sky;
Roses 'gainst the dark of cedar-trees,
A rustle with belated birds the house-wall nigh;
A grave contralto's sudden cry
From some compelling height of song;
A hush of voice, a slumbrous throng
Of half-roused chords, that fain,—
Forlorn with wordless joy or pain,—
Would seek the hand's control,
And wake at last in one exultant whole
Of overmastering song:

A roar of storm-swept woods! The beat of waves,
And streaks of meager moonlight through the dark;
Then peace upon the waters, calm in ocean caves,
And stir of early morning fields, where lark
And linnet still are reticent of song,
And all so right within the world that nothing can go wrong.

If the blue sky would ever be so blue!
If the hearts of men would ever be so true
      As now they seem!

Now, dawn on a far wide plain, and a slow river's pace,
And rising morning winds across a flowery space,
And—follow, follow to the mountain's rugged base!

Up, up a stony way into the clear and high.
The heart will ache so, here, to think that men must die,
When all so beautiful a world around will ever lie.

O Memory, no more, no more!
The hyacinthine brow bowed long ago to death.
Still are the ivory keys; forever closed the door;
The rose and cedar, mingled in a breath,
Are shadows mingled on the wall;
Year after year the rose returns;
With sunset lights the autumn burns;
Leaves grow old and fall,
And winter stillness quiets all.