From A Thing By Schumann

Breast high, floating and welling Their soul, moving beneath the satin, Plied the gold threads, Pushed at the gauze above it. The notes beat upon this, Beat and indented it; Rain dropped and came and fell upon this, Hail and snow, My sight gone in the flurry!

And then across the white silken, Bellied up, as a sail bellies to the wind, Over the fluid tenuous, diaphanous, Over this curled a wave, greenish, Mounted and overwhelmed it. This membrane floating above, And bellied out by the up-pressing soul.

Then came a mer-host, And after them legion of Romans, The usual, dull, theatrical!