A Duettist to Her Pianoforte — Thomas Hardy

SINCE every sound moves memories,How can I play youJust as I might if you raised no scene,By your ivory rows, of a form betweenMy vision and your time-worn sheen,As when each day youAnswered our fingers with ecstasy?So it's hushed, hushed, hushed, you are for me!

And as I am doomed to counterchordHer notes no moreIn those old things I used to know,In a fashion, when we practised so,

"Good-night!—Good-bye!" to your pleated showOf 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,As when she was by,Aye, even from the ancient clamorous “FallOf Paris," or "Battle of Prague" withal,To the "Roving Minstrels," or "Elfin Call"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 quaversAfresh on the air,Too quick would the small white shapes be hereOf the fellow twain of hands so dear;And a black-tressed profile, and pale smooth ear;—Then how shall I bearSuch heavily-haunted harmony?Nay: hushed, hushed, hushed you are for me!