Four pages, four octaves, four beats, and measures;
'Tis meaningless to some and meaningful to those
With love for music, and in music take pleasure,
In which melodies can render one able to repose.

Hands dart across keys, black and in white,
Keys rise and they fall, each pitch it will play.
And the sheet music in a musician's sight
Will speak words of pitch, pitches that say:

Two beats of E, eighth notes to follow
Dotted quarters and notes that have wings
Notes filled in black and notes that are hollow
A tune slowly rising, a melody it sings.

And people can do nothing but leave it alone
For 'tis not an effort, but a natural art
Those who feel are those who compose
Before patience is lost and music departs.

With music in mind I shall say to thee:
Music plays itself, so let music be.