AT A DANCE.
My queen is tired and craves surcease
Of twanging string and clamorous brass;
I lean against the mantelpiece,
And watch her in the glass.
One whom I see not where I stand
Fans her, and talks in whispers low;
Her loose locks flutter as his hand
Moves lightly to and fro.
He begs a flower; her finger tips
Stray round a rose half veiled in lace;
She grants the boon with smiling lips,
Her clear eyes read his face.
I cannot look—my sight grows dim—
While Fate allots, unequally,
The living woman’s self to him,
The mirrored form to me.