Within those halls, where plush-breeched flunkeys stand, What sounds, what scents, what visions of delight! How--to the bluest Blue Hungarian band-- Youth whirls away the unreturning night! How--perfumed as the blooms of Samarcand-- The dying flow’rets whisper, “Carlton White!” But, oh! to weary war-time ration-hunters, How like a dream, this stand-up supper--Gunter’s! For here, in reach of every slender hand which is Scarce languidly outstretched to porcelain plate, Are dainties drawn from each vale, stream, or strand which is Most famed for fruit or fish or fowl or cate: Creamed strawberries; thin, lavish-buttered sandwiches Of livered geese (that now squawk Hymns of Hate), Of priceless hams and tongues and caviar; ices; And sugared sweets in myriad strange devices.... Yet sweeter far than all these sweet things, Jill is: Queen of my verse and this “Young People’s Dance”: Fairer than fairest of Mayfairy fillies! Sweet, is the smile that lights a countenance Bright as moon-dappled, pink-tipped lotus-lilies; Sweet, are her jade-green eyes that gleam and glance-- And give no hint of yester-tea-time’s flare-up When stern mamma forbade her bind her hair up. Jill’s hair! How beautiful it is; the tresses Warm-golden, soft as cygnet’s earliest downing. Jill’s foot! How slim the arch the flounce caresses. Jill’s brow! How pure; how yet uncreased in frowning. (My Muse! How easily the jade impresses On this base coin a stamp of pseudo-Browning.) Jill’s youth! Jill’s dreams! These luxuries that lap her!... Don’t they present a most alluring flapper? So thinks, at least, this lad in evening raiment-- Shoes, shirt-front, collar, waistcoat-buttons, glowing; This sub. of other days--when soldier’s payment Scarcely sufficed each monthly mess-bill’s owing, And triple stars full fifteen years delay meant; He, who presents the goblet, over-flowing With icy rubies to its crinkled brim, And asks if Jill won’t “sit this out” with him.... And there it hangs, word-carven, my last image. (Browning again! now Keats!) O hapless pair, Loth lover and bold maiden of a dim age-- Lost to us now, and dead, but still most fair. O Attic shapes! Arcadian girlhood’s slim age, And silken youth with brilliantined hair! What climaxes must I not sacrifice, Who write this epic at a weekly price?