Classic Poem

I watch her fingers where they prance
Like little naked women, tango-mad,
Along the keys, a cup-shot dance —
Music, who'll say, more joyous or more sad?

A mystery . . . but not so strange
As she. Enigma is her pretty name;
And though she smiles, her veiled eyes range
Through tears of melancholy and shame.

She laughs and weeps. . . . Is it because
Only tonight she gave herself to me?
The new bud frightened to be glad. . . .
The child's first vision of the insatiate sea.