Music
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he neighbour sits in his window and plays the flute.From my bed I can hear him,And the round notes flutter and tap about the room,And hit against each other,Blurring to unexpected chords.It is very beautiful,With the little flute-notes all about me,In the darkness. In the daytime,The neighbour eats bread and onions with one handAnd copies music with the other.He is fat and has a bald head,So I do not look at him,But run quickly past his window.There is always the sky to look at,Or the water in the well! But when night comes and he plays his flute,I think of him as a young man,With gold seals hanging from his watch,And a blue coat with silver buttons.As I lie in my bedThe flute-notes push against my ears and lips,And I go to sleep, dreaming. A Lady You are beautiful and fadedLike an old opera tunePlayed upon a harpsichord;Or like the sun-flooded silksOf an eighteenth-century boudoir.In your eyesSmoulder the fallen roses of out-lived minutes,And the perfume of your soulIs vague and suffusing,With the pungence of sealed spice-jars.Your half-tones delight me,And I grow mad with gazingAt your blent colours. My vigour is a new-minted penny,Which I cast at your feet.Gather it up from the dust,That its sparkle may amuse you.
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