Ii

Little Babette, with your eyes of jet, Your midnight hair and your piquant chin, Your lips whose odours of violet Drive men to madness and saints to sin,-- I see you over the footlights' glare Down in the pit 'mid the common mob,-- Your throat is burning, and brown, and bare, You lean, and listen, and pulse, and throb; The viols are dreaming between us two, And my gilded crown is no make-believe, I am more than an actor, dear, to you, For you called me your king but yester eve, And your heart is my golden coronet, Little Babette.