CHOPIN

Faint preludings on a flute

And she swims before us;

Shadows follow in pursuit,

Like a phantom chorus.

Sense and sound are intertwined

Through her necromancy,

Till our dreaming souls are blind

To all things but fancy.

Haunted woods and perfumed nights,

Swift and soft desires,

Roses, violet-colored lights,

And the sound of lyres,

Vague chromatics on a flute —

All are subtly blended,

Till the instrument grows mute

And the dance is ended.