But my little London boy loved me only.

For him the world held nothing but my face, and it was of his great love for me that he died." "But these were all poets," said Antony.
"Yes, poets are the greatest of all lovers.

Though all who since the world began have been the makers of beautiful things have loved me, I love my poets best.

Sweeter than marble or many colours to my eyes is the sound of a poet singing in my ears--" "For whom, Silencieux, did you step down into the sad waters of the Seine ?" "It was a young poet of Paris, beloved of many women, a drunkard of strange dreams.

He too died because he loved me, and when he died there was none left whose voice seemed sweet after his.