During Music

O COOL unto the sense of pain
 That last night's sleep could not destroy;
 O warm unto the sense of joy,
  That dreams its life within the brain.
  What though I lean o'er thee to scan
 The written music cramped and stiff;—
 'Tis dark to me, as hieroglyph
  On those weird bulks Egyptian.
  But as from those, dumb now and strange,
 A glory wanders on the earth,
 Even so thy tones can call a birth
  From these, to shake my soul with change.
  O swift, as in melodious haste
 Float o'er the keys thy fingers small;
 O soft, as is the rise and fall
  Which stirs that shade within thy breast.