TO CHLOE, CAUGHT SPRING-CLEANING.
Now wherefore should you be dismayed
And in confusion fall,
Because I spied on you arrayed
In cap and overall,
And saw you for a moment stand
Clenching a duster in your hand?
The morning ardour of your face
Was like a summer rose;
One sooty smudge but seemed to grace
The challenge of your nose;
The gaudy thing that hid your hair
Performed its office with an air.
There is a time for stately tire,
For frills and furbelows,
When dainty humours should inspire
Such vanities as those;
So for stern hours of high intent
Behoves a fit habiliment.
Did not those gallants win our pride
And heroes stand revealed,
Who flung their fineries aside
For fashions of the field?
I, who have known campaigning too,
Salute a kindred soul in you.