(Written for the violinist who would eventually become my husband, about a decade after I wrote him this poem, although I don't think it was the poem that convinced him to marry me)

The music is sweet; fair minstrel, play on,
Such fiddling makes a fair fool out of me –
All unstrung, I become quite undone
In this sweet, tender rhapsody.

Your form is fair for all to see,
And from your tongue trips alchemy –
You play, but this game you've very near won.
The music is sweet; fair minstrel, play on.

Come, jongleur, let us hide from the sun,
But not from each other; your hands I'd not shun.
Your music touches me quite playfully.
Such fiddling makes a fair fool of me!

To cease fiddling now would be tragedy;
What, now, when the playing fiddles so free?
Our mutual musicking has only begun;
All unstrung, I become quite undone.

Our play now is sweet, can we summon
A music that arcs across passion?
Can we learn to love? A fever touches me
In this sweet, tender rhapsody.

I smile at your artistry,
your form, the speech you say.
Content me to trippingly commune
With you; the music is sweetly done.
Fair minstrel, play on.