Wallace Stevens - Peter Quince at the Clavier lyrics
[Wallace Stevens - Peter Quince at the Clavier lyrics]
Just as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the self-same sounds
On my spirit make a music, too
Music is feeling, then, not sound
And thus it is that what I feel
Here in this room, desiring you
Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk
Is music it is like the strain
Waked in the elders by Susanna
Of a green evening, clear and warm
She bathed in her still garden, while
The red-eyed elders, watching, felt
The basses of their beings throb
In witching chords, and their thin blood
Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna
In the green water, clear and warm
Susanna lay she searched
The touch of springs, and found
Concealed imaginings she sighed
For so much melody
Upon the bank, she stood in the cool
Of spent emotions
She felt, among the leaves, the dew
Of old devotions
She walked upon the grass, still quavering
The winds were like her maids
On timid feet, fetching her woven scarves
Yet wavering a breath upon her hand
Muted the night she turned
A cymbal crashed, and roaring horns
Soon, with a noise like tambourines
Came her attendant Byzantines
They wondered why Susanna cried
Against the elders by her side
And as they whispered, the refrain
Was like a willow swept by rain
Anon, their lamps' uplifted flame
Revealed Susanna and her shame
And then, the simpering Byzantines
Fled, with a noise like tambourines
Beauty is momentary in the mind
The fitful tracing of a portal
But in the flesh it is immortal
The body dies the body's beauty lives
So evenings die, in their green going
A wave, interminably flowing
So gardens die, their meek breath scenting
The cowl of winter, done repenting
So maidens die, to the auroral
Celebration of a maiden's choral
Susanna's music touched the bawdy strings
Of those white elders but, escaping
Left only Death's ironic scraping
Now, in it's immortality, it plays
On the clear viol of her memory
And makes a constant sacrament of praise
Make music, so the self-same sounds
On my spirit make a music, too
Music is feeling, then, not sound
And thus it is that what I feel
Here in this room, desiring you
Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk
Is music it is like the strain
Waked in the elders by Susanna
Of a green evening, clear and warm
She bathed in her still garden, while
The red-eyed elders, watching, felt
The basses of their beings throb
In witching chords, and their thin blood
Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna
In the green water, clear and warm
Susanna lay she searched
The touch of springs, and found
Concealed imaginings she sighed
For so much melody
Upon the bank, she stood in the cool
Of spent emotions
She felt, among the leaves, the dew
Of old devotions
She walked upon the grass, still quavering
The winds were like her maids
On timid feet, fetching her woven scarves
Yet wavering a breath upon her hand
Muted the night she turned
A cymbal crashed, and roaring horns
Soon, with a noise like tambourines
Came her attendant Byzantines
They wondered why Susanna cried
Against the elders by her side
And as they whispered, the refrain
Was like a willow swept by rain
Anon, their lamps' uplifted flame
Revealed Susanna and her shame
And then, the simpering Byzantines
Fled, with a noise like tambourines
Beauty is momentary in the mind
The fitful tracing of a portal
But in the flesh it is immortal
The body dies the body's beauty lives
So evenings die, in their green going
A wave, interminably flowing
So gardens die, their meek breath scenting
The cowl of winter, done repenting
So maidens die, to the auroral
Celebration of a maiden's choral
Susanna's music touched the bawdy strings
Of those white elders but, escaping
Left only Death's ironic scraping
Now, in it's immortality, it plays
On the clear viol of her memory
And makes a constant sacrament of praise