Midnight

Again (see chapter on The Ball) The Boldest Metaphor grows tame; Superlatives abjectly crawl Back to their lexicon in shame, And Synonyms in shrieking chorus Take refuge in the deep Thesaurus.

But every cloud that bars the sun They say with silverwear is lined; And tho’ they felt they were Undone, Their Highnesses were cheered to find At midnight when their Robes took wings, They kept their--well, their Other Things.

Perchance, Dear Reader, you have noted In that Department which to Trade is By Monthly Magazines devoted, The Pleasant Gentlemen and Ladies Whose Union Suits our souls bewitch-- The Simple Flannels of the Rich.

Even arrayed as one of these, In Homespun stood the Royal Twain, While people cried, on bended knees, “Long live their Majesties! who deign Thus by example to Restore Our Woolen Industry of Yore!”

Thro’ all the Land the Tidings sped From Door to Door, from Wife to Wife, Thro’ all the Land the Fashion spread For Woolen and the Simple Life. New looms sprang up on every hand And shepherds prospered in the land.

Poor God-mamma, ’twas her last caper; One night to throw some Light about She changed herself into a Taper, And Cinderella blew her out. The Princess then divorced the Prince, And Both lived Happy Ever Since.