At the Foresters

The shadows of the gaslit wings
Come softly crawling down our way;
Before the curtain someone sings,
The music sounds from far away;
I lounge beside you in the wings.
Prying and indiscreet, the lights
Illumine, if you haply move,
The prince's dress, the yellow tights,
That fit your figure like a glove:
You shrink a little from the lights.
Divinely rosy rouged, your face
Smiles, with its painted little mouth,
Half tearfully, a quaint grimace;
The charm and pathos of your youth
Mock the mock roses of your face.
And there is something in your look
(Ambiguous, independent Flo!)
As teasing as a half-shut book;
It lures me till I long to know
The many meanings of your look:
The tired defiance of the eyes,
Pathetically whimsical,
Childish and whimsical and wise;
And now, relenting after all,
The softer welcome of your eyes.

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Arthur Symons

Arthur William Symons, was a British poet, critic and magazine editor. more…

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"At the Foresters" STANDS4 LLC, 2020. Web. 1 Jun 2020. <>.

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