Daily I dress and sit, touch these keys,
nimble fingers bent to practice a song,
pray music could come from this desire
to sing out strong. What more could I desire
than to sit corseted, cosseted, pressing keys,
waiting for the world to praise my song?
Beneath silken shell a heart beats in song
while I grow old in daily habit, desire
mounting—to shatter this case and its keys.
(Why do I sit at these keys, bursting with song of desire?)