In a little Hungarian cafe
Men and women are drinking
Yellow wine in tall goblets.
Through the milky haze of the smoke,
The fiddler, under-sized, blond,
Leans to his violin
As to the breast of a woman.
Red hair kindles to fire
On the black of his coat-sleeve,
Where his white thin hand
Trembles and dives,
Like a sliver of moonlight,
When wind has broken the water.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (The Fiddler by Lola Ridge )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley
- Don't do anything in a bigger way than t.., Dr.V.K. Kanniappan
- Let poetry excel, hasmukh amathalal
- Mama's Black Breast, Ozioma Anieto
- Big bee, Dr PJ Raj Kamal
- Heroe, Portia Lane
- She, Anil Karki
- We, the great family, Anil Karki
- My Problem With Words, Valsa George
- Purchased Palsy, Pranab K. Chakraborty
- Just stupid, Pranab K. Chakraborty