OLYMPIA (from "Tales of Hoffmann")

The ballerina's arms uncurl,
Each finger flexes in the glove,
She rises up while cylinders whirl,
Swift and exact: a clockwork love.

Gracefully the cogs impart
Blushing glances, smiling eyes,
And we delight in her disguise —
To think alive horology's art.

Automaton, so lithe, so fresh,
You dance defiance of the scythe,
We see in your inviolate flesh
The resurrection and the life.

Exquisite linkage, wheels and chains,
She falters when our senses slow,
And imperceptibly we go
With smaller steps to fainter strains.

One day the doll will wobble and swing,
The head will droop, the pendulum sway,
But dazzled by the sheer array —
The sheer array of riotous things —
No one will see the slackening spring.

Where is the key, the end designed,
Oh sweet clock beckoning,
How can automata rewind
Their hour of reckoning?

THE PORTABLE SOPRANO

Just on the beat of three,
Just as the timpani rang,
The music stand broke free,
Stepped forth and sang.

Into the hall a foreign timbre soars,
Sweet as a flute, rippling as a cello,
The singing music stand implores
Cruel Scarpia or possibly Othello.

O Dio! the declamatory racket —
The shouts as chairs come crashing to the floor,
O Cielo! while the pages of the score,
Leaves on the wind, fly swirling from the bracket.

The concertmaster
Moderato
Moves precisely but
Legato
To arrest the rogue display:
He stands and plays an open A.

Then mighty as the rising tide,
The orchestra sweeps all aside,
As waves fall crashing on the sand,
The tuning overwhelms the stand.

Silence.
Shock.
A moment's pause for breath,
The noble tripod straightens for her death.

We see her in the spotlight gleam and sway,
We sense her burnished edge, her steel, her scorn,
She folds beside the footlights and is borne —
Triumphant on her opening night — away.