They telecast Tchaikovsky's Fourth last night,
That masterpiece of hesitance and fright.
I watched a beauty playing a bassoon.
How cheerfully she sat and blew her tune!
What thoughts were those that passed across her face,
What feelings caused that air of languid grace,
What promptings raised the tempo of her heart
And took her to a place a space apart
Where circumstances gathered to dictate
The self must cede its destiny to fate?
1 comment:
Fun to read.
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