Soft was the bloom on her cheeks as the delicate blush upon peaches;
Seeing her smile, teeth and lips seemed like pearls set in pinkest of coral;
Snow in her bosom had melted, despairing to rival its whiteness;
Taper and lithe were her fingers, each with its pink pearl-shell helmet;
Lightly had Time run the wheels of his chariot over her forehead,
Never a rut had they made, for the road was like white alabaster,
All this I saw and still more, though I am not a little short-sighted,
When at a morning performance by chance I happened to meet her.
Known to the friend I was with, he in the entr’acte introduced me;
And from that moment her box became the shrine of a goddess.