Portrait of a Lady at the Piano

She spoke assent, decisively and clear,
Flashed to her seat, flame-eyed and shining-lipped,
As though she were a crystal that had slipped
Down from the brilliance of the chandelier.
Her hands glittered --- We thought that we could hear
Icewater on white marble as it dripped,
Or yards of pale, blue satin deftly ripped
To shreds, or falling fragments of a spear.

Is there not anywhere deep down in her
One long, soft note to penetrate this blur
Of splintered music? Do bright, broken things
Litter her soul, or has she somewhere stored
In secret purple, like warm evenings,
The steady darkness of some perfect chord?