In hats à la paysanne looped up with gems,
And rustic kirtles of satin sheen.
But Comtesse Marie, though crowned with May,
Scarce smiles on the lovers who round her press,
And sits on her floral throne distrait,
Nor heeds who, watching her, strives to guess
What troubles this heiress, free to choose
From the proudest peers of the haute noblesse.
She sighs—and a suitor the sigh repeats;
Again—and another bends over her chair,