Must they be hid in the shadow of a household?
Have you not heard, in a proud dream,
Like unto a forest by the wind moving,
Like a soft shiver of the pressing crowd
That murmurs your name and follows you with its eyes?
There is the ardent joy and the eternal festival,
That the flower of your years is about to abandon,
For the middle class pleasures where they would enchain you,
And the squalling children who will give you less beauty!
Antonia (without turning round).