Last night I was up far too late, as usual in the summer; and as I lay on my bed scribbling, this sonnet took shape. It ended quite differently from what I thought it would be at the beginning; but I rather liked the result, as did the friend to whom I sent it when it was done. The title is the name I always give to the beautiful Steinway grand in Webster's recital hall - a truly glorious instrument, in itself (or herself, as Mr. Schene says) a work of art. It's a name that has caused much amusement among teachers and fellow-students alike, but it fits so perfectly that I can't help but use it. I'm sure I'm not the only pianist who has found in her instrument a vent for emotion and a beloved friend; and be they musicians or no, I hope my readers enjoy
When clouds are grey and glowering above,
And my dark mood rivals the ragged sky,
Or when the summer heat is burning, I,
To find at once a vent and comfort, move
To where, amid the golden-gleaming wood
And creamy whiteness of the little hall,
There stands the thing that is my earthly all,
My love, my torment and my source of good.
In smooth black satin clad, she waits for me,
Her smile gleaming white, but slow to speak
Till at a touch, a whisper or a shriek
Pours out my heart, in wealth of harmony,
Responding as true friend to friendly hand --
My dearest girl, a comrade simply grand!