Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))
A Duettist to Her Pianoforte
Song of Silence (E.L.H.–H.C.H.) Since every sound moves memories, 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, 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 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 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, 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’ 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 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; – Then how shall I bear Such heavily-haunted harmony? Nay: hushed, hushed, hushed, you are for me!
Thomas Hardy’s other poems:
931
