The Master

HE fumbles at your spirit

      As players at the keys

Before they drop full music on;

      He stuns you by degrees,

Prepares your brittle substance

      For the ethereal blow,

By fainter hammers, further heard,

      Then nearer, then so slow

Your breath has time to straighten,

      Your brain to bubble cool,—

Deals one imperial thunderbolt

      That scalps your naked soul.