Chopin

I

A dream of interlinking hands, of feet

Tireless to spin the unseen, fairy woof

Of the entangling waltz. Bright eyebeams meet,

Gay laughter echoes from the vaulted roof.

Warm perfumes rise; the soft unflickering glow

Of branching lights sets off the changeful charms

Of glancing gems, rich stuffs, the dazzling snow

Of necks unkerchieft, and bare, clinging arms.

Hark to the music! How beneath the strain

Of reckless revelry, vibrates and sobs

One fundamental chord of constant pain,

The pulse-beat of the poet's heart that throbs.

So yearns, though all the dancing waves rejoice,

The troubled sea's disconsolate, deep voice.

II

Who shall proclaim the golden fable false

Of Orpheus' miracles? This subtle strain

Above our prose-world's sordid loss and gain

Lightly uplifts us. With the rhythmic waltz,

The lyric prelude, the nocturnal song

Of love and languor, varied visions rise,

That melt and blend to our enchanted eyes.

The Polish poet who sleeps silenced long,

The seraph-souled musician, breathes again

Eternal eloquence, immortal pain.

Revived the exalted face we know so well,

The illuminated eyes, the fragile frame,

Slowly consuming with its inward flame,

We stir not, speak not, lest we break the spell.