A thousand fans are fretting the hot air;
Soft swells the music of the interlude
Above the murmurous hum of talk subdued;
But, from the noise withdrawn and from the glare,
Deep in the shadowy box your coilèd hair
Gleams golden bright, with diamonds bedewed;
Your head is bent; I know your dark eyes brood
On the poor sheet of paper you hold there,
That quotes my verses, and I see no more
That bald-head Plutus by your side. The seas
Sound in my ears; I hear the rustling pines;
Catch the low lisp of billows on the shore
Where once I lay in Knickerbockered ease,
And read to you those then unprinted lines.