Would take the poetry out of love like ours.
And when night came, beneath our pea-green arbour,
We’d guess whence came the earwigs that like friends
Drop into tea, while blazed the camphine light,
Or Vesta, or some other patent lamp,
And all the streets were echoing with the cries
Of orange girls, and music from cracked flutes
And murmurs of low organs that grind forth
One endless polka. Dost thou like the picture?
To which Cinderella (Mrs. Keeley), replied: