III an Opera House
Within the gold square of the proscenium arch,A curtain of orange velvet hangs in stiff folds,Its tassels jarring slightly when someone crosses the stage behind.Gold carving edges the balconies,Rims the boxes,Runs up and down fluted pillars.Little knife-stabs of goldShine out whenever a box door is opened.Gold clustersFlash in soft explosionsOn the blue darkness,Suck back to a point,And disappear.Hoops of goldCircle necks, wrists, fingers,Pierce ears,Poise on headsAnd fly up above them in coloured sparkles.Gold!Gold!The opera house is a treasure-box of gold.Gold in a broad smear across the orchestra pit:Gold of horns, trumpets, tubas;Gold—spun-gold, twittering-gold, snapping-goldOf harps.The conductor raises his baton,The brass blares outCrass, crude,Parvenu, fat, powerful,Golden.Rich as the fat, clapping hands in the boxes.Cymbals, gigantic, coin-shaped,Crash.The orange curtain partsAnd the prima-donna steps forward.One note,A drop: transparent, iridescent,A gold bubble,It floats… floats…And bursts against the lips of a bank presidentIn the grand tier.