Peter Quince at the Clavier

"Peter Quince at the Clavier" is a poem from Wallace Stevens's first book of poetry, Harmonium. The poem was first published in 1915 in the "little magazine" Others: A Magazine of the New Verse (New York), edited by Alfred Kreymborg.

 Just as my fingers on these keys
 Make music, so the self-same 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.

 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.

 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.

 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 scrapings.

             
 Now, in its immortality, it plays
 On the clear viol of her memory,
 And makes a constant sacrament of praise.

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