LXXXI.
But the eunuchs still complained,
When I raised my voice to sing—
They complained and they maintained
That it had too harsh a ring.
And they raised with one accord
All their dainty voices clear,
Little crystal trills outpoured—
Oh, how pure and fine to hear!
And they sang of love so sweet,
Love's desire and love's full measure,
That the rare artistic treat
Made the ladies weep for pleasure.