And even these long curling irons can show
Much evidence of use, yet naught disclose.
Here, when she smiles, you know it is her teeth
She's putting to the test ere she depart
For the gay revel on the lawn beneath,
Or moonlight ramble that may break a heart.
Here she may blush, until she, red as wine,
Knows that her triumphs have not ceased to be.
Here, when she frowns, and looks still more divine,
You know, wise mirror, that she thinks of me.