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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=336626" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Peter Quince at the Clavier</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I.<br>Just as my fingers on these keys <br>Make music, so the self-same sounds <br>On my spirit make a music, too. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Music is feeling, then, not sound; <br>And thus it is that what I feel, <br>Here in this room, desiring you, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk, <br>Is music. It is like the strain <br>Waked in the elders by Susanna; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Of a green evening, clear and warm, <br>She bathed in her still garden, while <br>The red-eyed elders, watching, felt </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The basses of their beings throb <br>In witching chords, and their thin blood <br>Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">II.<br>In the green water, clear and warm, <br>Susanna lay. <br>She searched <br>The touch of springs, <br>And found <br>Concealed imaginings. <br>She sighed, <br>For so much melody. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Upon the bank, she stood <br>In the cool <br>Of spent emotions. <br>She felt, among the leaves, <br>The dew <br>Of old devotions. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">She walked upon the grass, <br>Still quavering. <br>The winds were like her maids, <br>On timid feet, <br>Fetching her woven scarves, <br>Yet wavering. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">A breath upon her hand <br>Muted the night. <br>She turned — <br>A cymbal crashed, <br>And roaring horns. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">III.<br>Soon, with a noise like tambourines, <br>Came her attendant Byzantines. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">They wondered why Susanna cried <br>Against the elders by her side; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And as they whispered, the refrain <br>Was like a willow swept by rain. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Anon, their lamps' uplifted flame <br>Revealed Susanna and her shame. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And then, the simpering Byzantines <br>Fled, with a noise like tambourines. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">IV.<br>Beauty is momentary in the mind — <br>The fitful tracing of a portal; <br>But in the flesh it is immortal. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The body dies; the body's beauty lives. <br>So evenings die, in their green going, <br>A wave, interminably flowing. <br>So gardens die, their meek breath scenting <br>The cowl of winter, done repenting. <br>So maidens die, to the auroral <br>Celebration of a maiden's choral. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Susanna's music touched the bawdy strings <br>Of those white elders; but, escaping, <br>Left only Death's ironic scraping. <br>Now, in its immortality, it plays <br>On the clear viol of her memory, <br>And makes a constant sacrament of praise.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Wallace+Stevens">Wallace Stevens</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=336626" data-title="Peter Quince at the Clavier de Wallace Stevens" data-description="I./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,..."></div>
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