Beethoven towers
over me, so heavily
how could I contemplate
writing a symphony?

No Promethean
am I, puny -
'twas my struggle
endlessly, musically

to have written four-
the future will judge me
whether I stood equal
to Beethoven the All-Mighty

to my beloved Schumann
I owe an eternal duty
but for his tutelage
I'd but appear a mere footage in history

Keats will above
everyone, understand
just as George Sand
the burden and pain
of my illness
and loneliness
my desolation :

he wrote so sublimely:
'Now more than ever
seems  it rich to die
to cease upon the midnight
with no pain...'

how this resonates
with every strain
of my 'Nocturnes'-
I weep
and I can't sleep:
the night's shadows
encircle me
and no memory
of joy
do I keep.

My illness, painful
  and prolonged
  does new musical paths
  create--every note
  has sweetness
in melancholy -
if well you listen
you'd understand

Think only
    this of me:
    melody
    melody
    divine melody!

My songs*- the saddest-
       is what I love the utmost

     * singular verb as 'my songs are' is a single collective

Serious is my music
but you'll see me
happy at the pool-
much of life is comedy!


billiards

I don't write only
on peace, calm, joy
or all that which is tender-
my Sturm und Drang
impels me to break
with tradition-
my music
is revolt, defiance
a smite on the face
of fate:
the world
shall say
when I'm gone:
'Beethoven is anger!'