The Player

He played as one walks in his sleep,Unconscious of the heights he dares,Un-souled, and treading unawaresThe edges of a dangerous deep.

I listened in an ecstacyTo music loved but long forgot,And stealing softly to the spotGazed on the player wonderingly.

I saw his fingers touch the keysWith skill no master ever taught,While all my being, lost in thought,Vibrated to his harmonies.

I saw—it was no idle dream—A formless Presence glide and glanceBehind the keys, a radianceThat on the ivory lit a gleam.

Ah, then I knew whence came the skillThat touched with flame the instrument,And to his dreamy fingering lentA power beyond the player's will.

The old, old songs she loved so well,By her pure soul interpreted,With all the poet meant and said—Thence came the player's wondrous spell.