The Inn of Dreams/Black Butterflies
For other versions of this work, see Black Butterflies.
Black Butterflies
O words of all my songs . . . black butterflies! Wild words of all the wayward songs I sing . . . Called from the tomb of some enchanted pastBy that strange sphinx, my soul, they slowly rise And settle on white pages wing to wing . . .White pages like flower-petals fluttering Held spellbound there till some blind hour shall bring The perfect voice that, delicate and wise, Shall set them free in fairyland at last! That garden of all dreams and ecstasies Where my soul sings through an eternal spring, Watching alone with enigmatic eyes, Dark wings on pale flower-petals quivering . . . O words of all my songs . . . black butterflies!