SONGS OF LA MOUCHE.
Watteauesque.
There he stands, in exquisite array,
Bending forward with half-opened lips,
Wondering if perchance he dare to pay
Homage to her rosy finger tips.
Bending forward with half-opened lips,
Wondering if perchance he dare to pay
Homage to her rosy finger tips.
She is gay with every tender grace,
Artificial, admirably vain—
And the smile on her averted face
Fills his shallow heart with jealous pain.
Artificial, admirably vain—
And the smile on her averted face
Fills his shallow heart with jealous pain.
Overhead the pearly storm clouds brood;
To the twang of lute and mandolin,
She must be fantastically wooed,
Prelude to a love he cannot win.
To the twang of lute and mandolin,
She must be fantastically wooed,
Prelude to a love he cannot win.
Hand in hand we'll dance a little while,
As they danced a hundred years ago;
Then you'll ask my favour—I shall smile,
And our separate journeys we will go.
As they danced a hundred years ago;
Then you'll ask my favour—I shall smile,
And our separate journeys we will go.
Paris, Spring, 1849.
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