Adele Aus Der Ohe

(LISZT) I WHAT is her playing like? 'T is like the wind in wintry northern valleys: A dream-pause; then it rallies And once more bends the pine-tops, shatters The ice-crags, whitely scatters The spray along the paths of avalanches, Startles the blood, and every visage blanches. II Half-sleeps the wind above a swirling pool That holds the trembling shadow of the trees; Where waves too wildly rush to freeze Though all the air is cool; And hear, oh hear, while musically call With nearer tinkling sounds, or distant roar, Voices of fall on fall; And now a swelling blast, that dies; and now — no more, no more. (CHOPIN) I AH, what celestial art! And can sweet thoughts become pure tone and float, All music, into the trancéd mind and heart! Her hand scarce stirs the singing, wiry metal —. Hear from the wild-rose fall each perfect petal! II And can we have, on earth, of heaven the whole! Heard thoughts —the soul of inexpressible thought; Roses of sound That strew melodious leaves upon the silent ground; And music that is music's very soul, Without one touch of earth,— Too tender, even, for sorrow, and too bright for mirth!