xix.
This passacaglia for you, my dear
Wandering and unspoken valentine,
Having brought to me so much comfort here,
And such forgiveness to this heart of mine.
That such sweet pain could come from such a thin
Wood, that four strings and single bow could tell
True - my life played upon a violin,
Dark melancholy and despair - myself,
You see, the real me. I cannot forget
That all is you. No fault of yours, no blame
To you is given. But play these notes, let
That be my rest. There is joy in this pain,
A lonely cadenza has its beauty,
And in sad reflection of you, its duty.
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