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It was more or less this; this is how I put it down on the paper cigarette-box, from which I transpose it here, the day before yesterday.
I was thinking when I wrote this down –a rendition of the prosody of the song sung by two passing youths– that I was actually doing something. I did nothing. The sound was no great thing, I now see; but the voices were attractive. And as they drew me up to my window, both the sound and the voices became even more beautiful, because the two youths –twenty-two or twenty-three years old– were visions of beauty.
What bodies, what hair, what faces, what lips! They lingered for a brief while, then left; and I, the artisan, thought I was doing something by preserving an echo. Which I now find wanting, and probably useless. The only poetry that crossed my eyes the day before yesterday was the physical beauty of the two boys. It is this beauty (should memory preserve any of it and recall it during a moment of creative agitation) that might leave in my art a trace of its brief passing, the day before yesterday.