The curtain seems a rich purple cloud, the figure, still brighter, like a flamboyant bird, half emerged in the sunset. Love pauses just outside the bride's door with his gift, a tuft of black-purple cyclamen. The bee clings close and warmly sips, And seeks with honey-thighs to sway And drink the very flower away. Crimson, with honey-seeking lips, The sun lies hot across his back, The gold is flecked across his wings. One moment, then the plunderer slips Between the purple flower-lips.
Love passes out with a crash of cymbals.
There is a momentary pause and the music falls into its calm, wave-like rhythm. A band of boys passes before the curtain. They stand out against the curtain with symbolic gesture, stooping as if to gather up the wreaths, or swaying with long stiff branch as if to sweep the fallen petals from the floor. There is no marked melody from the instruments, but the boys' voices, humming lightly as they enter, gradually evolve a little dance song. There are no words but the lilt up and down of the boys' tenor voices.