206
what's o'clock
ORIENTATION
When the young ladies of the boarding-school take the air,
They walk in pairs, each holding a blush-red parasol against the sun.
From my window they look like an ambulating parterre
Of roses, I cannot tell one from one.
They walk in pairs, each holding a blush-red parasol against the sun.
From my window they look like an ambulating parterre
Of roses, I cannot tell one from one.
There is a certain young person I dream of by night,
And paint by day on little two-by-three inch squares
Of ivory. Which is she? Which of all the parasols in sight
Covers the blithe, mocking face which stares;
At me from twenty miniatures, confusing the singleness of my delight?
And paint by day on little two-by-three inch squares
Of ivory. Which is she? Which of all the parasols in sight
Covers the blithe, mocking face which stares;
At me from twenty miniatures, confusing the singleness of my delight?
