each perfect note I bear all thought.
Before the passion of thy complex grace
Flesh melts from bone that lies across the face,
And thought lies bare to what thy genius wrought.
But thought to most with faint acceptance blames,
Who find no human feeling in such form;
And the desire that rhetoric perform
Its unique cries I counter with no claims
But say that in Saalfelden once I played
Upon thine own clavier, now black with age,
Some remnant of thy sweet and decorous rage
Until such condescending minds, afraid
To cant against such naked elegance,
Could speak no more of spectacular innocence.