Classic Poem

AND so I somehow-nohow played
The whole o' the pretty piece; and then . . . whatever weighed
My eyes down, furled the film about my wits? suppose
The morning-bath — the sweet monotony of those
Three keys, flat, flat, and flat, never a sharp at all —
Or else the brain's fatigue, forced even here to fall
Into the same old track, and recognize the shift
From old to new and back to old again, and — swift
Or slow, no matter — still the certainty of change,
Conviction we shall find the false, where'er we range,
In art no less than nature: or what if wrist were numb,
And overtense the muscle, abductor of the thumb,
Taxed by those tenths' and twelfths' unconscionable stretch?
Howe'er it came to pass, I soon was far to fetch —
Gone off in company with Music!