The early sunlight quivers in each cypress,
Drifts like a long blond shadow through the grass
And, shivering, streams through high panes of glass,
Brightening the boudoir of the greying countess.
Each day's the same as that which has just yielded,
– Hear the bird trill above her though confined –
Once more her styled, white-powdered head's inclined
Over bright-tinted needlework, fine-gilded.
At always the same hour someone's admitted
Who bows in silence and sits down to play,
And from the faint spinet's old heart each day
A tired sonata's faded scent's emitted.
Over the yellow keys she sees hands stalking,
– The themes expire yet constantly revive –
And through a window views the bridge, the drive,
The tiny coaches, those who are out walking.
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