"The Guitarist Tunes Up"--Am "I" the Guitarist?

I, having been a guitarist for some time now, absolutely loved this poem. I wish that I had read it before I played and then after once more: the meaning is lucid, but I feel that I might owe that clarity to my experience with the instrument.

Tuning is definitely a fine process--fraught with caution and optimism. While I'm tuning, I feel truly at the mercy of the instrument: strings could break, bolts could loose and drop pitch, stirrups can catch strings and make sound lies, the whole event is nerve-wracking. At the same time, I've spent enough time with my guitars to gain an understanding of their habits. With that knowledge, I can't express the feeling of tuning any more clearly than Frances Cornford's "attentive courtesy." He goes on to illustrate a relationship between the man and his guitar with a likeness to marriage, and he does so quite rightly. Guitars have the strange capacity to sound entirely different at moment's notice. The guitarist doesn't command the guitar, he simply participates in the creation of music, pulling creativity out of its resting place within the hollowed body

Am "I" the Guitarist? I was able to relate to this poem instantly. There was no translation for the emotions and ideas presented, so when I ask this question, I don't mean myself in particular, but any guitarist in the first person. It seems as though Cornford wanted to paint a portrait of the tuning guitarist and show it to those that can't see from the outside. I had always thought of tuning as an embarrassing display of under-preparation, but Cornford has made it beautiful in this poem.