So the pale hands are quiet -- they that knew The loveliness of Bach at last are still; And now no longer can that shy heart thrill To Liszt's bright rhapsodies the drear day through; And she who loved the sunshine has for light Two candles at her head, two at her feet; Nocturnes of Chopin could not be more sweet Nor hyacinths so motionless and white. Though she is gone, she did not live in vain. We can each learn of beauty and its truth From the dear, brief concerto of her youth -- Do you not hear her music through the rain? It sweeps the heavens, flight on splendid flight; Somewhere she's playing Grieg -- for Grieg -- tonight. |