In a garb that was guiltless of colours She stood, with a dull, listless air -A creature of dumps and of dolours, But most undeniably fair.
The folds of her garment fell round her, Revealing the curve of each limb;Well proportioned and graceful I found her, Although quite alarmingly slim.
From the hem of her robe peeped one sandal -"High art" was she down to her feet;
And though I could not understand all She said, I could see she was sweet.
Impressed by her limpness and languor, I proffered a chair near at hand;She looked back a mild sort of anger -
Posed anew, and continued to stand.
Some praises I next tried to mutter Of the fan that she held to her face;She said it was "utterly utter,"
And waved it with languishing grace.
I then, in a strain quite poetic, Begged her gaze on the bow in the sky, She looked--said its curve was "aesthetic."But the "tone was too dreadfully high."
Her lovely face, lit by the splendour That glorified landscape and sea, Woke thoughts that were daring and tender:
Did HER thoughts, too, rest upon me?
"Oh, tell me," I cried, growing bolder, "Have I in your musings a place?""Well, yes," she said over her shoulder:
"I was thinking of nothing in space."
