In ecstasy of color because of the sun.
Out of hidden trees
A wood-thrush sang.
And then I heard the restaurant—
Crashing of spoons on trays,
The dip, dip, dip, of the big rotary fans,
The chink of the cash-register, the clatter of money into the tray,
And people talking loudly, with mirthless laughter,
And munching, munching, munching.
Over it mocked the violin—