The orbs downcast, the fingers’ coy advances,
The swiftly stifled sob that hooks the stripling—
Save I, Victoria Cross, and Rudyard Kipling!)
And there, beneath the new-sponged potted palm-tree,
That mid-day brought and morning shall remove—
Mayfair’s own wind-unruffled, ever-calm tree,
Whose drooping branches shield Mayfairies’ love—
She lisps of Waller parts, and thy dead charm, Tree
(Twin stars now shining in the “flies” above!);
While he admits he has or hasn’t seen them ...