Like one whom nothing moved. Then whence the words?
And why? For the gold woman’s only knowledge
Was a dream knowledge, drawn to him by night
When her own body slept in her own bed.
How could she understand? And what untruth
Was working in her, making these sweet sounds?
Their honey was more false for being heard
By him, by only him. That other singer—
He had been true. And troubling. But his song
Was never to be lost now. Dora was,