The shadows of the gaslit wings <br />Come softly crawling down our way; <br />Before the curtain someone sings, <br />The music sounds from far away; <br />I lounge beside you in the wings. <br /> <br />Prying and indiscreet, the lights <br />Illumine, if you haply move, <br />The prince's dress, the yellow tights, <br />That fit your figure like a glove: <br />You shrink a little from the lights. <br /> <br />Divinely rosy rouged, your face <br />Smiles, with its painted little mouth, <br />Half tearfully, a quaint grimace; <br />The charm and pathos of your youth <br />Mock the mock roses of your face. <br /> <br />And there is something in your look <br />(Ambiguous, independent Flo!) <br />As teasing as a half-shut book; <br />It lures me till I long to know <br />The many meanings of your look: <br /> <br />The tired defiance of the eyes, <br />Pathetically whimsical, <br />Childish and whimsical and wise; <br />And now, relenting after all, <br />The softer welcome of your eyes.<br /><br />Arthur Symons<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/at-the-foresters/
