Chopin
CALM is the close of the day,
All things are quiet and blest;
Low in the darkening west
The young moon sinks slowly away.
Without, in the twilight, I dream:
Within it is cheerful and bright
With faces that bloom in the light,
And the cold keys that silently gleam.
Then a magical touch draws near,
And a voice like a call of delight
Cleaves the calm of the beautiful night,
And I turn from my musing to hear.
Lo! the movement too wondrous to name!
Agitation and rapture, the press
As of myriad waves that caress,
And break into vanishing flame.
Ah! but the exquisite strain,
Sinking to pathos so sweet!
Is life then a lie and a cheat?
Hark to the hopeless refrain!
Comes a shock like the voice of a soul
Lost to good, to all beauty and joy,
Led alone by the powers that destroy,
And fighting with fiends for control.
Drops a chord like the grave’s first clod.
Then again toss the waves of caprice,
Wild, delicate, sweet, with no peace,
No health, and no yielding to God.
O Siren, that charmest the air
With this potent and passionate spell,
Sad as songs of the angels that fell,
Thou leadest alone to despair!
What troubles the night? It grows chill —
Let the weird, wild music be;
Fronts us the infinite sea
And Nature is holy and still.
