The Piano Player Explains Himself

When the corpse revived at the funeral, The outraged mourners killed it; and the soul Of the revenant passed into the body Of the poet because it had more to say. He sat down at the piano no one could play Called Messiah, or The Regulator of the World, Which had stood for fifty years, to my knowledge, Beneath a painting of a red-haired woman In a loose gown with one bared breast, and played A posthumous work of the composer S—— About the impotence of God (I believe) Who has no power not to create everything. It was the Autumn of the year and wet, When the music started.  The musician was Skillful but the Messiah was out of tune And bent the time and the tone.  For a long hour The poet played The Regulator of the World As the spirit prompted, and entered upon The pathways of His power—while the mourners Stood with slow blood on their hands Astonished by the weird processional And the undertaker figured his bill. —We have in mind an unplayed instrument Which stands apart in a memorial air Where the room darkens toward its inmost wall And a lady hangs in her autumnal hair At evening of the November rains; and winds Sublime out of the North, and North by West, Are sowing from the death-sack of the seed The burden of her cloudy hip.  Behold, I send the demon I know to relieve your need, An imperfect player at the perfect instrument Who takes in hand The Regulator of the World To keep the splendor from destroying us. Lady!  The last virtuoso of the composer S—— Darkens your parlor with the music of the Law. When I was green and blossomed in the Spring I was mute wood.  Now I am dead I sing.