Traumerei at Ostendorff's

I ate at Ostendorff’s, and saw a dame   With eager golden eyes, paired with a red, Bald, chilled, old man. Piercing the clatter came   Keen Traümerei. On the sound he bowed his head,   Covered his eyes, and looked on things long sped. Her white fierce fingers strained, but could not stir His close-locked hands, nor bring him back to her. Let him alone, bright lady; for he clips   A fairer lass than you, with all your fire: Let him alone; he touches sweeter lips   Than yours he hired, as others yet shall hire:   Leave him the quickening pang of clean desire, Even though vain: nor taint those spring winds blown From banks of perished bloom: let him alone. Bitter-sweet melody, that call’st to tryst   Love from the hostile dark, would God thy breath Might break upon him now through thickening mist,   The trumpet-summons of imperial Death;   That now, with fire-clean lips where quivereth Atoning sorrow, he shall seek the eyes Long turned towards earth from fields of paradise. In vain: by virtue of a far-off smile,   Men may be deaf a space to gross behests Of nearer voices; for some little while   Sharp pains of youth may burn in old men’s breasts.   But—men must eat, though angels be their guests: The waiter brought spaghetti; he looked up, Hemmed, blinked, and fiddled with his coffee-cup.