The Violinist and the Lady

DELIBERATELY he builds a cage
Of glamorous music to entice
Her curious but cautious feet;
And when she scorns her heart’s advice,
And lifts her skirts, and daintily
Steps in upon the shining floor,
He tiptoes softly after her,
And softly bolts the narrow door.

She sits at ease a little while,
Adjusts her dress and pats her hair,
And glances up and glances ‘round,
With an amused and gracious air.
But finally the lights become
A bit too glaring and she grows
A little weary of the place;
She rises, and superbly throws

A heavy flower at his feet,
And goes to learn the comedy
Of her unique imprisonment.
Dismayed, she wanders carefully
About an unfamiliar world,
Yet utters no soft reprimand,
But slyly tests the golden bars,
Until one bends beneath her hand.

Triumphantly she leaves the cage,
And, in relief at her escape,
She flings toward him words and smiles
Of a peculiar tender shape.
But though he bows in gratitude,
He scorns the small bit of her heart
With which she half maliciously
Attempts to pay him for his art.