I want no horns to rouse me up to-night, br And trumpets make too clamorous a ring br To fit my mood, it is so weary white br I have no wish for doing any thing. br br A music coaxed from humming strings would please; br Not plucked, but drawn in creeping cadences br Across a sunset wall where some Marquise br Picks a pale rose amid strange silences. br br Ghostly and vaporous her gown sweeps by br The twilight dusking wall, I hear her feet br Delaying on the gravel, and a sigh, br Briefly permitted, touches the air like sleet br br And it is dark, I hear her feet no more. br A red moon leers beyond the lily-tank. br A drunken moon ogling a sycamore, br Running long fingers down its shining flank. br br A lurching moon, as nimble as a clown, br Cuddling the flowers and trees which burn like glass. br Red, kissing lips, I feel you on my gown— br Kiss me, red lips, and then pass—pass. br br Music, you are pitiless to-night. br And I so old, so cold, so languorously white.