XIV
An actress,
powdered yellow for the camera—
daughter of the Greek princess buried in Mycenae 
with a gold mask on her face. The hush 
when into the restaurant crowded with faces 
a star comes: 
the painted lips are silent, the painted eyes turn.
The Mexican has finished playing;
he lifts his guitar and kisses it.

XV
The paths are deserted as always; 
below, lights of houses and motor-cars, 
and the broad wash of foam; 
here, under the stars, beds of flowers, gloom of thick hedges, 
and the orderly clusters of palm leaves. 
If this were in Italy, you say,
the walks would be crowded, 
and here would be rows of tables—
a band would be playing.
Is silence too strong for you?
Must it be diluted 
with alcohol, conversation, and music?

XVI
The Greeks would have made a myth about you, my fine girl, 
and said a god, because of this indifference, 
because you walk away quickly, turning 
your beautiful head with its sleek black hair away, 
changed you into the starling that flies with angry cries 
from branch to branch 
after the indifferent passer-by.