Romance

ROMANCE She played Chopin And played it wonderfully well. She would be quite beautiful - Young, vivacious - I could tell From my window I could see her, Though only her dark, flowing hair. There was a violin on the piano. Another musician there? I yearned to see her face, To complete the lovely sound with vision. I would gather courage, go next door, Knock – this my bold decision. When I rapped the music stopped. I waited, restless, eager to see The form, the face I could love so well, And hoped she’d (at least) like me When at last then my obsession appeared She was all I could ever hope for, Standing there, smiling, greeting This stranger at her door. I begged her pardon, but couldn’t resist the urge To see who was playing Chopin so well, That she truly must like the great Pole. She was disturbingly amused, I could tell. I was about to introduce myself When she declared, “I like Chopin just fine.” - Her tone of contempt forever dashed my ardor - “It was Romance, by Anton Rubinstein”