Is it not the breeze that whispers through arcades
Between their ancient shades, whilst trains
Real, or of skirts undone, or of his dancer's ghost, no, not you, sweetheart -
Are rushing at the wall?
Whatever happens next is hidden, we cannot foxtrot through
And sweep the night away out of its obscure premise, too
much?, perhaps. Delay one moment longer, though, don't open
up your gaze as I am quite content,