Crack! crack!
A rocket that soared, with a shower of fire, through the black —
How they trembled and murmured, the gaslit, mysterious trees,
And the swell of the music went swooning away on the breeze,
And she, with a face like a flower, and a flower at her throat,
And a slim, scented glove just touching the sleeve of my coat,
Whispered and walked; and I knew, while I stared in her face,
Half the men in the crowd were thirsting to stand in my place,
And, like mirrors, the women that watched her, next day would repeat
The rose at her ear and the pearl-buckled shoes on her feet.
The mad, merry chime of the valses, half passion, half game,
That shivered and sobbed through its laughter, was called by her name,
Her name, that we shouted whenever the winecups were filled,
Till swords would leap out of the scabbard, and blood would be spilled —
The fountains shot higher, the people pressed round in a lane,
As she passed to her carriage, with lordling and prince in her train —
Crack! crack!
The rocket soared upward, and rushed out of sight through the black ...
The rose leaves have faded, and fallen, and mixed with the dust,
The roses that kissed the small ear, where the diamond was thrust.
'Mid twanging of fiddles, and lamps like a rainbow that shine,
Not hers are the fingers that plunge the camellias in wine,
Not hers the white bosom we crush, as the valse eddies by —
When the goblet foams over, 'tis no more her name that we cry —
And she — ? Nay, I know not! I fancied, indeed, that to-day
One passed me, with face like to hers, when she turned it my way,
With lavish carnations and lilies, washed streak upon streak,
The mask of despair, on her throat and her haggard young cheek —
What of that? Vogue la galere! The rose, that is queen of to-day,
Lurks under the brim of a shepherdess hat, as at play;
The hand, that half-clings to my coat-sleeve, is naked and white,
The hair is gold-dusted, that brushes my shoulder tonight —
Crack! crack!
Another red rocket, that soars out of sight through the black.
A rocket that soared, with a shower of fire, through the black —
How they trembled and murmured, the gaslit, mysterious trees,
And the swell of the music went swooning away on the breeze,
And she, with a face like a flower, and a flower at her throat,
And a slim, scented glove just touching the sleeve of my coat,
Whispered and walked; and I knew, while I stared in her face,
Half the men in the crowd were thirsting to stand in my place,
And, like mirrors, the women that watched her, next day would repeat
The rose at her ear and the pearl-buckled shoes on her feet.
The mad, merry chime of the valses, half passion, half game,
That shivered and sobbed through its laughter, was called by her name,
Her name, that we shouted whenever the winecups were filled,
Till swords would leap out of the scabbard, and blood would be spilled —
The fountains shot higher, the people pressed round in a lane,
As she passed to her carriage, with lordling and prince in her train —
Crack! crack!
The rocket soared upward, and rushed out of sight through the black ...
The rose leaves have faded, and fallen, and mixed with the dust,
The roses that kissed the small ear, where the diamond was thrust.
'Mid twanging of fiddles, and lamps like a rainbow that shine,
Not hers are the fingers that plunge the camellias in wine,
Not hers the white bosom we crush, as the valse eddies by —
When the goblet foams over, 'tis no more her name that we cry —
And she — ? Nay, I know not! I fancied, indeed, that to-day
One passed me, with face like to hers, when she turned it my way,
With lavish carnations and lilies, washed streak upon streak,
The mask of despair, on her throat and her haggard young cheek —
What of that? Vogue la galere! The rose, that is queen of to-day,
Lurks under the brim of a shepherdess hat, as at play;
The hand, that half-clings to my coat-sleeve, is naked and white,
The hair is gold-dusted, that brushes my shoulder tonight —
Crack! crack!
Another red rocket, that soars out of sight through the black.