Classic Poem

What hopes and fears, what tragical delight,
What lonely rapture, what immortal pain,
Through those two hands have flowed, nor thrilled in vain
The listening spirit and all its depth and height!
Lovelier and sweeter from those hands of might
The great strange soul of Schumann breathes again;
Through those two hands the over-peopled brain
Of Chopin floods with dreams the impassioned night,
Yea, and he too, Beethoven the divine,
Still shakes men's bosoms with his bosom's throes,
O fair Enchantress, through those hands of thine;
And yet perchance forgets at last his woes,
Happy at last to think that hands like those
Have poured out to the world his heart's red wine.