V.—FOLLY.
And this is Folly! Like a flaunting flower
Her red lips part half wanton, half in scorn:
Over the wreck of many a squandered hour
This poor frail child of Pleasure well might mourn.
But with the consciousness of beauty born,
Exulting in her youth’s superior brightness—
(Not yet the rose-leaves from her garland torn)—
She moves along to scenes of festal lightness.
The aged teacher’s solemn, sacred lesson