Schubert 9th Symphony

I love this common pomp and circumstance:
carriages dropping white gloved ladies off
at halls, their entire beings rouged and powdered;
a driver cocking his head discreetly to catch
a glimpse of stocking; coaches and six, like chariots
weighted with gods, fragrant with claret wine,
pass by and slow. Such is this work,
rife with restraint, romantic to its core.

It calls up to my mind vague images
of childhood, or rather, some childhood
I may have had in some soul's life:
tarps of awnings over sidewalks, fronting
elegant restaurants; the clack of horses' hooves
against the square, tile-like stones of streets;
my hand in the hand of a tall lady, her skirt
full of that broad, fashionable stiffness,
starched white ruffled sleeves faintly scented,
the tiny jingle of necklace and bracelet. Now
we're punting down the wide river, flanked
on either side by weeping willow trees;
on one hand the rumble of an allegro comes,
basso profundo, from the symphony hall.


early 90s