And their costumes were gleaming with purple and gold,
And the sheen of their jewels was like stars on the sea,
As their chariots rolled proudly down Piccadill-ee.
Like the leaves of Le Follet when summer is green,
That host in its glory at noontide was seen;
Like the leaves of a toy-book all thumb-marked and worn,
That host four hours later was tattered and torn.
For the rush of the crowd, which was eager and vast,
Had rumpled and ruined and wrecked as it passed;
And the eyes of the wearer waxed angry in haste,