How can I hear the triumphant symphonies?
The scarlet rhapsodies and beryl-cold sonatas? ...
Ah, strangers, ah, vacant tedious faces,
Bobbing beneath the feathery hats,
You have stolen the wings of birds for your garnishing,
And the stars and the dim pale petals of the sea
To make your breasts resplendent, to glitter your dress,—
How I might love you and weep for you,
Crowning your brows with a wreath of songs
If you could understand my singing,