IMPRESSION.TO M. C.THE pink and black of silk and lace,Flushed in the rosy-golden glowOf lamplight on her lifted face;Powder and wig, and pink and lace,And those pathetic eyes of hers;But all the London footlights knowThe little plaintive smile that stirsThe shadow in those eyes of hers.Outside, the dreary church-bell tolled,The London Sunday faded slow;Ah, what is this? what wings unfoldIn this miraculous rose of gold?
TO M. C.
THE pink and black of silk and lace,Flushed in the rosy-golden glowOf lamplight on her lifted face;Powder and wig, and pink and lace,
And those pathetic eyes of hers;But all the London footlights knowThe little plaintive smile that stirsThe shadow in those eyes of hers.
Outside, the dreary church-bell tolled,The London Sunday faded slow;Ah, what is this? what wings unfoldIn this miraculous rose of gold?