Fast locked a door and flung away the key,
And left the ravished garden evermore!—
A priest would say my soul I had imperilled.
The Crowd
No, no! No priests! Reason! Reason! Yvette.
Yvette
This mantle blue, these oak leaves in my hair,
These sandals and this spear, this tunic white,
The wreathèd car, the music and the song!
All, all a mockery, unless, unless—