He sings.

I

Past we glide, and past, and past! 
        What’s that poor Agnese doing
Where they make the shutters fast? 
        Grey Zanobi’s just a-wooing 40
To his couch the purchased bride: 
        Past we glide!

II

Past we glide, and past, and past! 
        Why’s the Pucci Palace flaring
Like a beacon to the blast? 
        Guests by hundreds, not one caring
If the dear host’s neck were wried: 
        Past we glide!

She sings.

I

The moth’s kiss, first! 
Kiss me as if you made believe 50
You were not sure, this eve,
How my face, your flower, had pursed
Its petals up; so, here and there
You brush it, till I grow aware
Who wants me, and wide ope I burst..

II

The bee’s kiss, now! 
Kiss me as if you entered gay
My heart at some noonday,
A bud that dares not disallow
The claim, so all is rendered up, 60
And passively its shattered cup
Over your head to sleep I bow.

He sings.

I

What are we two? 
I am a Jew,
And carry thee, farther than friends can pursue,
To a feast of our tribe;
Where they need thee to bribe
The devil that blasts them unless he imbibe. 
Thy . . .  Scatter the vision for ever!  And now
As of old, I am I, thou art thou! 70

II

Say again, what we are? 
The sprite of a star,
I lure thee above where the destinies bar
My plumes their full play
Till a ruddier ray
Than my pale one announce there is withering away
Some . . .  Scatter the vision forever!  And now,
As of old, I am I, thou art thou!

He muses.

Oh, which were best, to roam or rest? 
The land’s lap or the water’s breast? 80
To sleep on yellow millet-sheaves,
Or swim in lucid shallows just
Eluding water-lily leaves,
An inch from Death’s black fingers, thrust
To lock you, whom release he must;
Which life were best on Summer eves?

He speaks, musing.

Lie back; could thought of mine improve you?
>From this shoulder let there spring
A wing; from this, another wing;
Wings, not legs and feet, shall move you! 90
Snow-white must they spring, to blend
With your flesh, but I intend
They shall deepen to the end,
Broader, into burning gold,
Till both wings crescent-wise enfold
Your perfect self, from ’neath your feet
To o’er your head, where, lo, they meet
As if a million sword-blades hurled
Defiance from you to the world!