Till one sat in a theatre, and far away loomed
A rampart of feathers, frilling, and straw,
Hiding the stage, the footlights, and all,
Save perhaps the top of a paste-board tree;
Oh, then one's fingers did certainly crawl
To fling a book at the filigree!
But, some day, in Fashion's whirligig,
The monstrous bustle, the Eiffel hat,
May arise once more, even twice as big,
For our great-grandchildren to wonder at.