AT A DANCE.

My queen is tired and craves surcease Of twanging string and clamorous brass; I lean against the mantelpiece, And watch her in the glass. One whom I see not where I stand Fans her, and talks in whispers low; Her loose locks flutter as his hand Moves lightly to and fro. He begs a flower; her finger tips Stray round a rose half veiled in lace; She grants the boon with smiling lips, Her clear eyes read his face. I cannot look—my sight grows dim— While Fate allots, unequally, The living woman’s self to him, The mirrored form to me.