Doch die Kastraten klagten

And still the eunuchs grumbled,
Whene'er my voice arose;
They grumbled as they mumbled
My songs were far too gross.

And oh, how sweetly thrilling
Their little voices were;
Their light and limpid trilling
Made such a pretty stir.

They sang of Love, the leaping
Flood that engulfs the heart . . .
The ladies all were weeping
At such a feast of Art!