In its own light set free; a condition of rest.
There are two whispering girls down on the bridge,
Large-shawled, with a dark pulpy film of breath
Between their cheeks. . . . And there 's the wonderful girl
I saw one night play with a curling flower;
If I might make her lean upon a cushion
And listen to four strange pitiless words
I should feel the high and transitory hand
Whose right brush-strokes, passing, leave a soul,
I 'd enter paradise to repeat her mouth,
And leave her for a Fate on men for ever.
Set in rich greys; colour is sentiment
Some meritorious sunset-piece may ruin;
But in true tones the fadeless colour vibrates.

She smiles to sweet Parise with the trailing hair,
A very fingered lady who shows thumb-marks
Where many men have skipped her pages.

So do the high unconscious Fates—we smile.

Your gamba needs a string before they come.

And stroke the enamelled surface with old silk—