I timidly gaze and I glance in surprise,
At beauties in cambric and gingham!
A Paris I feel in this Garden of Dress,
And, had I to make a selection—
The Apple of Gold, I most freely confess,
I'd give to the Pink of Perfection!
It must not remind you of raspberry ice,
Nor cheek of a milkmaid or cotter;
A lobster-like redness is not at all nice,
Nor feverish glow of the blotter;