But the blue evening grows already darker.
Time to the opera we sped:
there 'tis the ravishing Rossini,
>4 darling of Europe, Orpheus.
To severe criticism not harking, he
is ever selfsame, ever new;
he pours out melodies, they effervesce,
>8 they flow, they burn
like youthful kisses, all
in mollitude, in flames of love,
like the stream and the golden spurtles of Ay
>12 starting to fizz; but, gentlemen,
is it permitted to compare
do-re-mi-sol to wine?
And does that sum up the enchantments there?
And what about the explorative lorgnette?
And the assignments in the wings?
>4 The prima donna? The ballet?
And the loge where, in beauty shining,
a trader's young wife, vain
and languorous,
>8 is by a crowd of thralls surrounded?
She lists and does not list
the cavatina, the entreaties,
the banter blent halfwise with flattery,
>12 while in a corner naps behind her
her husband; wakes up to cry “Fuora!”; yawns,
and snores again.
There thunders the finale. The house empties;
with noise the outfall hastes;
the crowd onto the square
>4 runs by the gleam of lamps and stars.
The sons of fortunate Ausonia hum
a playful tune
involuntarily retained —
>8 while we roar the recitative.
But it is late. Sleeps quietly
Odessa; and breathless and warm
is the mute night. The moon has risen,
>12 a veil, diaphanously light,
enfolds the sky. All's silent;
only the Black Sea sounds.
And so I lived then in Odessa.
