One thought comes now more mad than all the rest.
My satin slippers left where I undressed
Bid me to put them on and steal away
To seek some grotesque mirth before the day;

And my long cape that lies across the bed,
Where in disorder furs and gowns are spread,
Implores my soul to some absurd romance, —
Why not the masquerade where still they dance?

For I might make my muff into a mask,
And change into a coach my absinthe flask,
And bid the stars that stand so idly by
Bring me a robe of mist and moon-lit sky;

And I might charge the genii of the rouge
To make my face flower-like for lovers use,
And with these five dead roses for a fan
Enter the ballroom as the last tired dance began. ...

And I should dance the last tired dance with him,
Until the music failed, and lights grew dim,
And the slow morning peering through the door
Saw us glide by alone upon the floor. ...

Lo, la la ... lo, la la ... lo-oo, la la — !

The waltz is over, but my lover lays
His arms about me still ... no music plays ...
My fan has fallen — and I droop for breath —
He lifts his mask — Helas ! I danced with Death.