Just as my fingers on these keys Make music, so the self-same sounds On my spirit make a music, too.

Music is feeling, then, not sound; And thus it is that what I feel, Here in this room, desiring you,

Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk, Is music. It is like the strain Waked in the elders by Susanna;

Of a green evening, clear and warm, She bathed in her still garden, while The red-eyed elders, watching, felt

The basses of their beings throb In witching chords, and their thin blood Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.