Such radiant raiment wearing.
"Whirled in the waltz's formal maze by one
Who might be a broad-cloth'd automaton,
For any show of pleasure,
She moves with drooping lids, and lips apart,
And scarce a flush to show that a young heart
Throbs to the pulsing measure."
"Men meet to moon, and women whirl to wed,
The cynic says. Is joy in life quite dead,
Gladness in concourse banished