Inside a little Hungarian cafe, drinkers sit with tall glasses of yellow wine while smoke softens the room. The speaker’s attention fixes on the fiddler, a small blond man who bends over his instrument as tenderly as if he were leaning against a woman’s body. His red hair catches the light against his black sleeve. His pale hand shakes and plunges while he plays, compared to a thin strip of moonlight trembling on water broken by wind. The mood is close, dreamy, and slightly sensual. There is warmth in the wine and smoke, but also something fragile and almost eerie in the musician’s intense, private relationship with the violin. The poem makes the cafe feel suspended, as if the music and the haze turn an ordinary evening into something intimate and fleeting.
The Fiddler — Summary
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.