Who've pinned the bill upon the ledge of Lady Swandown's Box.
But the last loud stirring chorus at length has died away,
And the house is up and buzzing, for the Entre'acte hath sway,
The corridors are thoroughfares—as here and there they flit
Our humming, chatting Opera world from boxes, stalls, and pit.
For now there comes the Quarter hour when everybody meets,
The cheery, chatty Quarter hour, when each some comrade greets,
The Quarter hour so terrible, when Critics deep, who sit
In solemn judgment—pass it—in the lobby near the pit.
A chattering joking conclave, that merry clever ring,