text:                                           I
  Just as my fingers on these keys
  Make music, so the selfsame sounds
  On my spirit make a music, too.
  
  Music is feeling, then, not sound;
  And thus it is that what I feel,
  Here in this room, desiring you,
  
  Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
  Is music. It is like the strain
  Waked in the elders by Susanna:
  
  Of a green evening, clear and warm,
  She bathed in her still garden, while
  The red-eyed elders, watching, felt
  
  The basses of their beings throb
  In witching chords, and their thin blood
  Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.
  
  
                                                II
  In the green water, clear and warm,
  Susanna lay.
  She searched
  The touch of springs,
  And found
  Concealed imaginings.
  She sighed,
  For so much melody.
  
  Upon the bank, she stood
  In the cool
  Of spent emotions.
  She felt, among the leaves,
  The dew
  Of old devotions.
  
  She walked upon the grass,
  Still quavering.
  The winds were like her maids,
  On timid feet,
  Fetching her woven scarves,
  Yet wavering.
  
  A breath upon her hand
  Muted the night.
  She turned
  A cymbal crashed,
  And roaring horns.
  
  
                                             III
  Soon, with a noise like tambourines,
  Came her attendant Byzantines.
  
  They wondered why Susanna cried
  Against the elders by her side;
  
  And as they whispered, the refrain
  Was like a willow swept by rain.
  
  Anon, their lamps' uplifted flame
  Revealed Susanna and her shame.
  
  And then, the simpering Byzantines
  Fled, with a noise like tambourines.
  
  
                                               IV
  Beauty is momentary in the mind
  The fitful tracing of a portal;
  But in the flesh it is immortal.
  
  The body dies; the body's beauty lives.
  So evenings die, in their green going,
  A wave, interminably flowing.
  So gardens die, their meek breath scenting
  The cowl of winter, done repenting.
  So maidens die, to the auroral
  Celebration of a maiden's choral.
  
  Susanna's music touched the bawdy strings
  Of those white elders; but, escaping,
  Left only Death's ironic scraping.
  Now, in its immortality, it plays
  On the clear viol of her memory,
  And makes a constant sacrament of praise.