Grows not unlike my own.
Yet strange that, not for my life,
Could I redden as she does, deep.
I wonder why colour called up's so dear,—
Laid on should come so cheap.
"But, work, work, work,
With powder, and puff, and pad:
And, work, work, work,
For every folly and fad!
With Imogen's artless gaze?