Poems (Hoffman)/The Blind Musician
THE BLIND MUSICIAN
Lightly over the ivory keysThe white hands move in their measured grace,But never a note the player seesOr the light aglow in an upturned face.
Thoughts are afloat on the river of songLike golden boats with transparent oarsAs swiftly, sadly, sweetly alongThe winding flood in its grandeur pours.
There are ripples now and then in the streamAnd cascades that dash on the rocks belowBut the oars keep time to the one grand themeThat ever blends with the river's flow.
There are vessels afloat on the changing tideThat never were launched from a rugged coastAnd phantom barques o'er the cascades glideThat only the river of song can boast;
And fairy yachts o'er the ripples playAnd nymphs and naiads and mermaids throngTo lave in the cascade's silvery sprayIn the beautiful, beautiful river of song.
Does she see them all as she sits apart,From the listening crowd in the hall below?For the blind have windows of soul and heartThat only God and the angels know.
Veiled is the outer sense of sightDarkness and blackness from all outsideBut it never, never can be nightWhence such wondrous streams of music glide.
Like the feathered songster's richer strainWhen by cruel hands deprived of sight,So grander tones in harmonic trainFlow sweetly forth from life's sad blight.
O blind musician! thy day is night,Not even the moon, so pensive pale,Inspires thy notes as with sheeny lightThe evening song of the nightingale.
And we go forth to the day—the dayWith its wealth of sunshine broad and freeO, our very lives should glide awayAs strong and sweet as thy melody!