Sometimes the wounded, mutilated _Allegro_ would cry inside you all day,
imploring you to finish it, to let it pour out its life in joy.
When it left off the white sound patterns of poems came instead. They
floated down through the dark as she lay on her back in her hard, narrow
bed. Out of doors, her feet, muffled in wet moor grass, went to a beat, a
clang.
She would never play well. At any minute her father's voice or her
mother's eyes would stiffen her fingers and stop them. She knew what she
would do; she had always known. She would make poems. They couldn't hear
you making poems. They couldn't see your thoughts falling into sound
patterns.
Only part of the pattern would appear at once while the rest of it went
on sounding from somewhere a long way off. When all the parts came
together the poem was made. You felt as if you had made it long ago, and
had forgotten it and remembered.