In large dark folds a flowing tapestry
In high warp, with emphasis would hang
Along the four walls of a massive retreat
Where the shadows blended into luxury mysteriously

The old furniture, of faded bright cloth,
The bed glimpsed vaguely as a regret
Everything would have the attitude and the age of secrecy
And the spirit would be lost in some allegory

Neither books, nor pictures, nor flowers, nor harpsichords
Only, through the dark depths, on the cushions
A blue and white apparition – a woman

Sadly she’d smile – disturbing witness
Of the slow echo of a distant song for a bride and groom
In an obsession with musk and with incense