He fell in a hell of love with her
for art’s sake.  She was a pianist —
he thought only of what she played,
and she loved him for listening.

Soon he composed a lyric.
She laughed with such resonance,
putting his only song to shame
while ******* private melodies.

The walls were rich with hangings:
a mirror for her, a clock for him,
a portrait of a portrait —
all in good taste, for art’s sake.