Schwammerl
In years gone by, I sang Schubert lieder,Many of the more famous he composed.His Ave, my first, I still sing frequently,Its euphony of joy and sorrowA celebration of human existenceI need for my salvation as a man.
I think of the tribulations he suffered,Beginning with his body and its frame(He was just five feet tall. His friends, who loved him,Nicknamed him Schwammerl, “little mushroom.”),And his longing for love, Sehnsucht, unending,Though marriage laws frustrated his desires.
He may have died of syphilis, he may not,But he died young — perhaps the gods loved him?Beethoven “heard” his gifts and genius,And later composers have revered him.Such a power of invention graced himOnly the jealous will belittle him.
Though I’m nothing but an amateur,I’ve memorized enough of his music To be certain of this much in my life:Welcome his songs to your spirit and your love,And you will feel the beauty of existence As you also feel it dying away.
