Poems (Victor)/The Player
THE PLAYER.
He played as one walks in his sleep,
Unconscious of the heights he dares,
Un-souled, and treading unawares
The edges of a dangerous deep.
I listened in an ecstacy
To music loved but long forgot,
And stealing softly to the spot
Gazed on the player wonderingly.
I saw his fingers touch the keys
With skill no master ever taught,
While all my being, lost in thought,
Vibrated to his harmonies.
I saw—it was no idle dream—
A formless Presence glide and glance
Behind the keys, a radiance
That on the ivory lit a gleam.
Ah, then I knew whence came the skill
That touched with flame the instrument,
And to his dreamy fingering lent
A power beyond the player's will.
The old, old songs she loved so well,
By her pure soul interpreted,
With all the poet meant and said—
Thence came the player's wondrous spell.