You are beautiful & faded, like an old opera tune played upon a harpsichord; or like sun flooded silks, of an eighteenth century boudoir. In your eyes, smoulder the fallen roses of outlived minutes, and the perfume of your soul is vague & suffusing. With the pungence of sealed spice jars, your half tones delight me. And I grow mad with the gazing of your bent colours.
