As in the silence the clear moonlight drips
Among the fields that love her drowsily,
These passionate moments trickle on through time,
From soul to languorous soul.
Like mad musicians upon fretted harps,
The senses play upon the poignant nerves,—
And colours clothe our mood
As smoke against the light, as shimmering prisms
Irised with pallors of an opal's heart
In which the glittered pattern of desire