AT THE CAVOUR.WINE, the red coals, the flaring gas,Bring out a brighter tone in cheeksThat learn at home before the glassThe flush that eloquently speaks.The blue-grey smoke of cigarettesCurls from the lessening ends that glow;The men are thinking of the bets,The women of the debts, they owe.Then their eyes meet, and in their eyesThe accustomed smile comes up to call,A look half miserably wise.Half heedlessly ironical.
WINE, the red coals, the flaring gas,Bring out a brighter tone in cheeksThat learn at home before the glassThe flush that eloquently speaks.
The blue-grey smoke of cigarettesCurls from the lessening ends that glow;The men are thinking of the bets,The women of the debts, they owe.
Then their eyes meet, and in their eyesThe accustomed smile comes up to call,A look half miserably wise.Half heedlessly ironical.