O’er the breast’s superb abundance where a man might base his head?
Well (and it was graceful of them) they’d break talk off and afford
—She, to bite her mask’s black velvet, he to finger on his sword,
While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord?
What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished, sigh on sigh,
Told them something? Those suspensions, those solutions—‘Must we die?’
Those commiserating sevenths—‘Life might last! we can but try!’
‘Were you happy?’—‘Yes.’—‘And are you still as happy?’—‘Yes—And you?’
—‘Then more kisses’—‘Did I stop them, when a million seemed so few?’
Hark—the dominant’s persistence, till it must be answered to!