Текст оригинала на английском языке
O COOL unto the sense of pain That last night's sleep could not destroy; O warm unto the sense of joy, That dreams its life within the brain. What though I lean o'er thee to scan The written music cramped and stiff;— 'Tis dark to me, as hieroglyph On those weird bulks Egyptian. But as from those, dumb now and strange, A glory wanders on the earth, Even so thy tones can call a birth From these, to shake my soul with change. O swift, as in melodious haste Float o'er the keys thy fingers small; O soft, as is the rise and fall Which stirs that shade within thy breast.
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