And when the Chopin Nocturne ends
And the last note says: "Goodbye" . . .
Where does the golden beauty go?
Does it really ever die?
And when the pianist lifts his hands
And the music is no more,
Do others hear the afterglow
Of what was heard before?
If the soul thirsts after beauty
And beauty flies away,
There must be someone, somewhere,
Who hears the music play.
Can such beauty disappear,
Leave nothing in its wake,
Except the golden meaning
In the heart it must forsake?
It must be there, among the stars,
In some distant galaxy,
Where beauty such as Chopin's
Lives on, forever free . . .