That the loops of pearls on her throat, and years—
Old lace on her bosom were heaved with sighs:
And I said to her softly:—"It appears"—
Then stopped with, it seemed, my soul in my eyes—
"That you are not happy, Valora of Verne!
There is that at your heart which—well, denies
These mocking mummeries.—Live and learn!—
And is it the truth or only lies?—
"You must hear me now! whom I oft with my heart,—
In words of the soul, that are silent in speech,—