a strong young lad in Ireland—that same!
(She and the Boy begin to move off. The Blind Singer stands behind turned towards them, his cap off. The tinkling of the harp music sounds again,—like water softly running.)
Curtain
Bending themselves towards the dahlias,
Some peacocks arch languidly on the rose at moon-time,
And the sinuous branches above
Worship, in their drowsiness,
Her face, pale as the dying dahlias.
She hearkens in the distance to the brief music;
The night is clear, and the branches sing all in harmony,
And weariness has swayed to slumber her body
To the fragrant rhythm of the pure music.
The peacocks have fashioned an ocellated balustrade
For the descent of her eyes to the carpet
Of things and of emotions that live between the horizons;
And the vermicular adornment of her enfeebled body
Crouches within its soul,
Her capricious desire soft with recitative and incense.
