I do not think that they will sing for me,
My loves, my Muses, my Fates Three.
Whose voice is oft forgotten?
Bleached white, coal black, rust red from ill use.
Will they not speak?
Hearken! I feel them -- now,
And less of a being was I then.
Savour Me, Rejoice in Me,
Eat Me, DRINK ME!;
How dim Alice (Alyss?) was.
We might seem fair,
And Ophelia the brightest,
Never knowing less
than the whole of the Sum of its [parts].
Ah, but what larks!
What a day we have had.
No more, no more, I beg you,
Kind Sir! And the noble
Footman, Ferryman, Equalizer,
dost willingly oblige:
No I do not think they will sing
For me.
But with me, as the Curtain sinks.