BEFORE my eyes she flits in grace Like to some nymph in arbored Thrace, Her youthful visage all aglow With pleasure, as row after row Of men applaud the skirt's deft twirl, And dancing of the ballet-girl. Then quick upon my inward eye, In many a rosy-colored dye, There flash the pictures of my youth, -- My college days, -- when I, forsooth, Would oft in pleasure's vortex whirl, And worship every ballet-girl. . . . . . . . . . These things I'm fancying to-night Are not results of firelight. Ah, no! -- I'm fifty, and with glee Still to the ballet go, and see, As the soft smoke-wreaths upward curl -- Well -- it's the same old ballet-girl! |