QUEEN OF THE WAX DOLLS
And now, repenting, you would be my wife,
Would pawn your troth to me—
Poor Doll! beyond the icebergs of your life
There throbs no open sea!
I sought it once, and lo! my former self
Is shipwrecked in the quest.
See the impassioned Franklin, with his pelf,
Dead on your gelid breast.
You scream—’tis but a delicate doll’s cry—
A trick, as all perceive it;
They say you’re stuffed with sawdust—though a lie,
A skeptic might believe it!
STONE APPLES
’Mid the shimmer of lamps and the redowa’s dash,
Where the trumpet the thick-tongued song salutes—
’Mid the flutter of gauze and the diamond’s flash,
’Mid the masquerade of flutes!
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