When Fashion, beauteous maid, was born, They took the freshness of the morn, They took the colors of the flowers, The fragrances of hidden bowers, The sweep of birds in curving flight, The radiant splendors of the light, The soft enticing sway of song, The glories that to June belong, The fall of water flashing fair, And all the sheen of sunny air, Thus framing, from a myriad norms, This creature of a thousand forms. So winsome, sweet, and delicate They sent her forth; and learned too late That when they made this lovely whole They somehow had left out the soul. |