The birds refuse to sing
In moonlight. I have importuned the oriole,
          Begged him and his other beaks
                                Of black-gold wing,
          To chant for us while we would stroll
Through this, my cinct demesne and its effects,

                    Its views and topiaries,
Its huge mandalas flowering up from earth,
          As sculpted as a sonnet's rhyme,
                                Its worldly peace,
          Its way of saying there is no dearth,
No guilt, and no such thing as wrong or lame.

                    So I have paid a viol
To follow us around this charméd precinct,
          Playing only minuets,
                                O Camisole!
...