Cadets might dream of—serges with a waist,
And breeches cut by Blank (you know the man,
Or dare not say you don't), long lustrous boots,
And gloves canary-hued, bright primrose ties
Undimmed by shadows of Sir FRANCIS LLOYD—
And, like a happy mood, I wore the shirt.
It was a woven breeze, a melody
Constrained by seams from melting in the air,
A summer perfume tethered to a stud,
The cool of evening cut to lit my form—