Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
Is music. It is like the strain
waked in the elders by Susanna:
Of a green evening, clear and warm,
She bathed in her still garden, while
The red-eyed elders, watching, felt
The basses of their beings throb
In witching cords, and their thin blood
Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.
– Wallace Stevens, Peter Quince at the Clavier
