III
When at a masquerade
I meet thee in the shrill indifferent throng,
Our faces painted each in some disguise
Of varnished revelry;
I whisper in thine ear
Fables, and flatteries, and inconsequent tales,
Trivial as the dust that whirls about our feet,
And shower the multicoloured streamers high
Where Folly is king of midnight—
Suddenly dost thou snatch thy mask aside,
And thy still face looks out,
Weary and overwise
Where the mad pretence avails not.