The front of your dress must be of bright gold,
Almost vermilion, like father’s of old.
With feathers white-edged on both little wings;
That’s what the oriole wears when he sings.
His stockings are azure, the same that they wore
In the bright orchestra close to Eve’s door!
We never change style; the old one is best:
Given of Him Who our forefathers dressed;
Days before Eve placed a rose in her hair,
The same golden red did the orioles wear.