In the dim mirrors of imagination,
I watch the silent dancing of my soul . . .
I watch her as she dances with my dreams . . .
See how she takes innumerable disguises,
And hides her beauty behind many masks,
And how, sometimes, she seems to laugh and sing,
. . . And weep . . . and call upon the unknown Gods . . .
But not one mirror has betrayed her voice,
Or shown to me the secret of her face . . .
O silent dance of sorrow and delight,
My heart grown tired with watching, turns away,
To make perhaps a little passionate song
Out of the shadows of immortal things . . .