Of formless form and toneless tones,
I might have stepped out of the frame
Of a Rossetti or Burne-Jones.
I stole soft frills from Marcus Stone,
My waist wore Herkomer’s disguise,
My slender purse was strained, I own,
But—my silk lay as Sargent’s lies.
And when you were abroad—in Prague—
’Mid Cherets I had shone, a star;
Then for your sake I grew as vague