Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May.
And was the day of my delight As pure and perfect as I say?
The city is built To music, therefore never built at all, And therefore built forever.
Man is the hunter; women are the game; those sleek and shining creatures of the chase. We hunt them for the beauty of their skins; they love us for it, and we ride them down.
The quiet sense of something lost
For now the poet cannot die, Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry.