Alone in the kitchen, in grease laden steam,
I pause for a moment—a moment to dream:
For even a dishwasher thinks of a day,
Wherein there’ll be leisure for rest and for play.
And now that I pause, o’er the transom there floats,
A strain of the Traumerei’s soul stirring notes.
Engulfed in a blending of sorrow and glee,
I wonder that music can reach even me.
But now I am thinking; my brain has been stirred.
The voice of a master, the lowly has heard.