(From Paul Verlaine)

Your soul, it is a garden set apart,
Where masques and bergamasques go mummer-wise
And dance and strum the cithern, though at heart
Half-sad beneath their antical disguise.

Singing in minor mode, to muted string
Of love triumphant and life opportune,
They scarce believe the happy theme they sing,
And their songs pass and mingle with the moon,

The fair, the mournful moon, so silently
Making the birds to dream in coverts lone,
And the slim founts to sob with ecstasy
Among the tranquil statues bowed in stone.