Repeat that song . . . so close, so dear to me . . .
As if my passions’ tempestuous oceans
My love . . my wasted youth's emotions . .
My poesy were mirrored in its plea . . . .
At length she rose:
And in her sheer white gown, draped loosely about her arms
She looked more like a specter leaving his dark, cold tent,
Beneath the stone he raised, than a living thing of charm.
Gracefully she sat upon the low piano chair
Two hands, like butterflies, dancing about the keys,
And with her song, my soul’s wings spread upon the breeze,
I saw again my home . . I felt the woodland air. .
And she played on . . of happiness . . and dreams . . and youth.