Since every sound moves memories,
       &nbsp How can I play you
Just as I might if you raised no scene,
By your ivory rows, of a form between
My vision and your time-worn sheen,
       &nbsp       &nbsp As when each day you
Answered our fingers with ecstasy?
So it’s hushed, hushed, hushed, you are for me!

And as I am doomed to counterchord
       &nbsp Her notes no more
In those old things I used to know,
In a fashion, when we practised so,
“Good-night! - Good-bye!” to your pleated show
       &nbsp       &nbsp Of silk, now hoar,
Each nodding hammer, and pedal and key,
For dead, dead, dead, you are to me!

I fain would second her, strike to her stroke,
       &nbsp As when she was by,
Aye, even from the ancient clamorous “Fall
Of Paris,” or “Battle of Prague” withal,
To the “Roving Minstrels,” or “Elfin Call”
       &nbsp       &nbsp Sung soft as a sigh:
But upping ghosts press achefully,
And mute, mute, mute, you are for me!
Should I fling your polyphones, plaints, and quavers
       &nbsp Afresh on the air,
Too quick would the small white shapes be here
Of the fellow twain of hands so dear;
And a black-tressed profile, and pale smooth ear;
       &nbsp       &nbsp - Then how shall I bear
Such heavily-haunted harmony?
Nay: hushed, hushed, hushed you are for me!