NOMINIS UMBRA.
What's this? Discoloured, left by chance Within this dusty letter-rack— Dear me! The programme of a dance Which I took part in ten years back! "The Towers, Rigden," at that date The Denvers' house. Sir Charles has flitted Since then to some secluded State Where creditors are not admitted.
There's not, observe, a single blank; Behold what energy was mine Ten years ago! I used to rank A waltz as something quite divine; All night its mazes I pursued— At least (this statement more precise is) With but a pleasing interlude For mild flirtation, "cup," and ices.
And then, my partners—twice, I see, I danced with Florence Smith, who's wed Sir Crœsus since, and "Ethel V."— Ah, poor Miss Vivian, yes—she's dead. "Miss Johnson"—I remember her! She told me man was quite demented, A Sarah-Grand-Philosopher Before "New Women" were invented.
And others follow. Though I'm sure I'm fairly certain as to them, Here is a mystic signature, For who, in wonder's name, was "M."? I danced with her four times! My word, What said her chaperon judicial? "May"? "Mary"? "Muriel"? It's absurd, I cannot construe that initial!
I wonder, vaguely, where we met, And how it was we came to part, And whether I have left her yet A permanently-injured heart; Well, faded programme, you may go, To tear you up at once were better; But yet—I'd greatly like to know The meaning of that mystic letter!