In the blonde room the lustrous-limbed piano, 
Like an incarnate shadow with heart and nerves, 
Seems to wait for those fleshly apparitions 
Whose passing humors it so darkly serves. 

They come: the room contracts with talk and gesture; 
Its pictures pale as they nod with curving cheeks; 
They flutter the music score with debating fingers. 
The keyboard smiles like a wise old slave — and speaks. 

Their voices rise and float, wreathing, dissolving 
Over the resolute, quivering instrument. 
Touch and kiss, grave-flower, wine-drenched laughter 
Bloom in a fountain of sound, fade like a scent. 

The music gutters at last, is snuffed like a candle. 
Gay gossip follows, feasting . . . The farewells start. 
Alone in the ash-blonde room the dark piano 
Stands like a shining shadow with nerves and heart.