He is great. He has become it
By a long and arduous climb
To the crest, the crown, the summit
Of the Thespian tree—a lime!
There he chatters like a starling,
There, like Jove, he sometimes nods;
But he still remains the "darling
Of the gods!"
IV
THE GILDED YOUTH
A monocle he always wears,
Safe screwed within his dexter eye;
His mouth stands open wide, and snares
The too intrusive fly.
Were he to close his jaws, no doubt,
The eyeglass would at once fall out.
His choice of clothes is truly weird;
His jacket, short, and negligée,
Is slit behind, as tho' he feared
A tail might sprout some day.
One's eye must be inured to shocks
To stand the tartan of his socks.
The chessboard pattern of his check
Betrays its owner's florid taste;
A three-inch collar grips his neck,
A cummerbund his waist;
The trousers that his legs enshroud
Speak for themselves, they are so loud.
His shirt, his sleeve-links and his stud,
Are all of a cerulean hue,
And advertise that Norman blood,—
The bluest of the blue,—
Which, as a brief inspection shows,
Seems to have centred in his nose.
His saffron tresses, oiled with care,
Back from a vacant brow he scrapes;
From so compact a head of hair
No filament escapes.
(This surface-polish, friends complain,
Does not descend into the brain.)