But of her,

We can say that she is fair;

For we know underneath

All the wanness,

All the heat

(In her blanched face)

Of desire

Is caught in her eyes as fire

In the dark center leaf

Of the white Syrian iris.

The rather hard, hieratic precision of the music—its stately pause and beat—is broken now into irregular lilt and rhythm of strings.

Four tall young women, very young matrons, enter in a group. They stand clear and fair, but this little group entirely lacks the austere precision of the procession of maidens just preceding them. They pause in the center of the stage; turn, one three-quarter, two in profile and the fourth full face; they stand, turned as if confiding in each other like a Tanagra group.

They sing lightly, their flower trays under their arms.

Along the yellow sand

Above the rocks

The laurel-bushes stand.

Against the shimmering heat

Each separate leaf

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