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Arthur Symons - The Chopin Player
Work rating: Low

To VLADIMIR DE PACHMANN 


The sounds torture me: I see them in my brain; 
They spin a flickering web of living threads, 
Like butterflies upon the garden beds, 
Nets of bright sound. I follow them: in vain. 
I must not brush the least dust from their wings: 
They die of a touch; but I must capture them, 
Or they will turn to a caressing flame. 
And lick my soul up with their flutterings. 

The sounds torture me: I count them with my eyes, 
I feel them like a thirst between my lips; 
Is it my body or my soul that cries 
With little coloured mouths of sound, and drips 
In these bright drops that turn to butterflies 
Dying delicately at my finger-tips?
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