Aesthetic

In a garb that was guiltless of colors
She stood, with a dull, listless air —
A creature of dumps and of dolors,
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 splendor
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. "
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