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”
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