“Than ever you get, in these degenerate time....”
And then, they love to hover where maids sleep,
Stirring the dewy lashes of soft eyes,
Dimpling warm cheeks and parting tender lips.
And in small ears, half-hidden in tangled curls,
They tinkle such sly secrets of delight,
That, when the sun cries “shame” to slugabeds,
These wake, cooing like doves, with little trills and laughs
And memories of a kiss, in that dream world
Where “he” had swapped his bowler for a crown,