Thomas Hardy — A Duettist to her Pianoforte

Since every sound moves memories,        &nbsp How can I play you Just as I might if you raised no scene, By your ivory rows, of a form between My vision and your time-worn sheen,        &nbsp       &nbsp As when each day you Answered our fingers with ecstasy? So it’s hushed, hushed, hushed, you are for me! And as I am doomed to counterchord        &nbsp Her notes no more In those old things I used to know, In a fashion, when we practised so, “Good-night! - Good-bye!” to your pleated show        &nbsp       &nbsp Of silk, now hoar, Each nodding hammer, and pedal and key, For dead, dead, dead, you are to me! I fain would second her, strike to her stroke,        &nbsp As when she was by, Aye, even from the ancient clamorous “Fall Of Paris,” or “Battle of Prague” withal, To the “Roving Minstrels,” or “Elfin Call”        &nbsp       &nbsp Sung soft as a sigh: But upping ghosts press achefully, And mute, mute, mute, you are for me! Should I fling your polyphones, plaints, and quavers        &nbsp Afresh on the air, Too quick would the small white shapes be here Of the fellow twain of hands so dear; And a black-tressed profile, and pale smooth ear;        &nbsp       &nbsp - Then how shall I bear Such heavily-haunted harmony? Nay: hushed, hushed, hushed you are for me!