Yet, lighthouse-like, that lone one stood,
Or whisked her skirts around,
Like a wild wind that sweeps the wood,
And strews with leaves the ground.
Singing, "Our hour is come, O Sun
Of Fashion! We'll have no more fun.
Solitude is too slow!
True thou hast worn ten thousand shapes
(In spite of man's sour gibes and japes),
But—now the thing lacks go.