Poet, be seated at the piano.

Play the present, its hoo-hoo-hoo,

Its shoo-shoo-shoo, its ric-a-nic,

Its envious cachinnation.

If they throw stones upon the roof

While you practice arpeggios,

It is because they carry down the stairs

A body in rags.

Be seated at the piano.

That lucid souvenir of the past,

The divertimento;

That airy dream of the future,

The unclouded concerto …

The snow is falling.

Strike the piercing chord.

Be thou the voice,

Not you. Be thou, be thou

The voice of angry fear,

The voice of this besieging pain.

Be thou that wintry sound

As of the great wind howling,

By which sorrow is released,

Dismissed, absolved

In a starry placating.

We may return to Mozart.

He was young, and we, we are old.

The snow is falling

And the streets are full of cries.

Be seated, thou.