Down on the floor, among the waving bronze
Of weeds, and threading lilies' roots, are fish;
And on the surface, flowers, leaves and swans.

A tarnished glint of scales, a bubbling swish
Disturbs the shadows of that cold green night
Of nibbling mouths that know no other wish.

No singing there; but, delicately white,
The petals open on the leaves above
Like butterflies that poise their wings for flight.

Nothing remains; even the mournful dove
Has vanished, and the little breasts are gone
That were too hungry for the lips of love.