La Marquise de Pompadour

She was Madame de Pompadour,I wore a George's hunting-dressWhen we wandered aside for a short, sweet hour,From the masked and whirling press.

Nooked in a cool recess we sat,Whilst her tongue, like a bee from flower to flower,First touched on this, and then on that—Madame de Pompadour.

Many a laughing word was saidEre a hush crept over that green alcove,And the light tongue ceased, for another had strayedInto the perilous paths of love.

At first our hands met, then our eyes,And then our lips. Ah! that short, sweet hourIn which I won her, my life-set prize,Madame de Pompadour.Won her, and wore her a week—no more;But that week outweighs all years to me,For she then was my Madame de Pompadour,As she yet again will be.

Alas! in the shade of that dim recess,Under the flickering Chinese lamp,On that dainty head and powdered tressOther lips set their stamp.

A chill neglected. One little week,And beneath a ringing, indented stoneShe slept, where incense and music seekTo mingle fragrance and tone.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust—Let the dead past bury its dead;But I still hold my heart in trust,Unmated and unwed.