1 Helen Montfaucon, nee Snape, Moved me to passionate love— Hers was a figure of exquisite shape, Hers was the voice and the eye of a dove. 2 Wholly untinted her face, Wholly ungilded her hair— She held pearl—powder and rouge a disgrace She it was told me so. Hence my despair! 3 No, neither powder of rice, Rouge nor bronzed locks were her line,— Hers was a figure of rarest device Perfect in contour—Milosian, divine. 4 What was it happened? Who knows? I can but faintly suggest— Maybe in waltzing I held her too close Close to the violets pinned on my breast. 5 There was a pin 'neath the flowers, Something went off with a gasp— Sighed like a sibillant gas–jet. Great Powers! Helen Montfaucon grew lean in my clasp. 6 Shrivelled, shrank, dwindled, went small, Said that the room was too hot— Fled from the cloak–room, and fled from the ball. I saw her going. Her figure was not! 7 There are advertisements. Yes. Can they mean anything? No. Say, was it possible ... Helen's ball dress Hid ought less solid than Helen below?
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