How can a white darken the black
and, by its lit-up coat and glaze,
bring it up with its snowy shade?
Don’t both beauty and the soul
flee from all that’s stark and plain,
don’t they too further a taste
that both listens and speaks
in a way that suits proper keys—
hint by hint—where all that is
is their birth, yet nothing ever ends
and everything infers a Heaven’s cue?
On a nuance, defined and as finely vague,
everything on an ivoried clavier depends.
Only thus, from its deepest, silence starts to sing.
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