Classic Poem

In smart attire my Phillida
Was gayest of the gay,
The giddy world was all to her;
But that was yesterday!
For, strange to tell, she seems content
With serious things—because it's Lent!

She goes to matins every day
And bows her knee demurely,
A nun of moonlight-colored mood
You would esteem her surely.
Some young Madonna she might be,
Made pale with prayer and ecstasy.

You'll swear 'tis fasting makes her cheek
Seem just a trifle thinner,
As plaintively she calls herself
A miserable sinner,
And finds in that convenient sentence
The fervor of profound repentance.

And yet be sure her utmost warmth
Of picturesque devotion
Will not be suffered to provoke
A too severe emotion.
With timely tears her eyes may swim—
But not enough to make them dim.

To play the part of penitent
To her is most becoming,
Or else I fear that round her feet
The world would still be humming.
Less for her soul than her complexion
Is Lent a much desired protection.

Just watch her eyes and you will see
The naughty imp still in them;
And if you tempt her witcheries
She'll very soon begin them;
For when she's deepest in her prayers
The spell may take you unawares.