As the girlish voices sing,
Wavering then down and now up,
Romantic in innocence,
Bird-blush in their lashes
And autumnal in spring.
But vivid voices fade grayly
When the generation of song
Is done without identity--
A voice behind a curtain.
The great and powerful things
Belong to a body and bring a
Mysterious magnetism lacking
When the figure is implied.
Lips and the woman I sing,
Where a body stands upright,
With unclouded clarity.
To see the heart of joy or pain
Is to enfold it in one's own heart.
To hear alone is to enjoy the sense
Without the human frame,
Blissfully reading the tale
Without knowing the author's name.
EJR
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