While words can't tell how tight my gloves, or huge my white lorgnette.
And, every Opera evening, I lounge into my stall,
And nod, and smile to scores—of course—Habitués, one and all;
And then adjust that huge lorgnette; and, grave as grave can be,
From box to box, and tier to tier, commence my scrutiny.
There's first the row of baignoires so dark, and deep, and sly;
Then the Grand Tier—the milky way—around the Opera sky.
The First tier so respectable—beloved of Russell Square,
The Second, where the artist haunts high up in middle air.
And well I know by many a sign, by toilet, and by style,