The pink and black of silk and lace, Flushed in the rosy-golden glow Of lamplight on her lifted face; Powder and wig, and pink and lace, And those pathetic eyes of hers; But all the London footlights know The little plaintive smile that stirs The shadow in those eyes of hers. Outside, the dreary church-bell tolled, The London Sunday faded slow; Ah, what is this? what wings unfold In this miraculous rose of gold? |