At The Foresters

The shadows of the gaslit wings Come softly crawling down our way; Before the curtain someone sings, The music sounds from far away; I lounge beside you in the wings. Prying and indiscreet, the lights Illumine, if you haply move, The prince's dress, the yellow tights, That fit your figure like a glove: You shrink a little from the lights. Divinely rosy rouged, your face Smiles, with its painted little mouth, Half tearfully, a quaint grimace; The charm and pathos of your youth Mock the mock roses of your face. And there is something in your look (Ambiguous, independent Flo!) As teasing as a half-shut book; It lures me till I long to know The many meanings of your look: The tired defiance of the eyes, Pathetically whimsical, Childish and whimsical and wise; And now, relenting after all, The softer welcome of your eyes.