He owned that kind of lyrical command
That was so much admired. These were the days
Of piano culture in America.
Stacy sat easy, gathered in long-fingered hands
Octaves and basses, and never turned a phrase
That did not evoke some helpless metaphor
Of something crystalline or something clean,
Abstracted but committed, intense and yet serene.
In Goodman’s band he was like a hidden spring
In constant flow. Alone, his lines would swing
Lightly, with a deft sustaining tremor. Often enough
It was among the bold brass necks and the tough
Chicago swagger that he placed his clarity:
Silencing a barroom with a line of poetry.