Her locks as orange as the citrus fruit,

Her garments white as icy pile?d snow,

With voice as tragic as Apollo’s lute,

She takes the stage with stark assure?d flow.

The pianist’s fingers poised in revelry

Commence the lied and thus she listens close

As intro morphs into a melody,

Her mouth agape, her notes ring out jocose.

Spectators breathe, the whispering doth cease

Confronted by the lied of majesty.
And quoth the sister in her silent pleas,
“Have pride, Schumann, in such young artistry!”

The concert hall an air of silence takes

And with applause the auditorium shakes.