You saw her last, the ball-room's belle,
A soufflé, lace and roses blent;
Your worldly worship moved her then;
She does not know you now, in Lent.
See her at prayer! Her pleading hands
Bear not one gem of all her store.
Her face is saint-like. Be rebuked
By those pure eyes, and gaze no more
Turn, turn away! But carry hence
The lesson she has dumbly taught —
That bright young creature kneeling there
With every feeling, every thought
Absorbed in high and holy dreams
Of — new Spring dresses truth to say,
To them the time is sanctified
From Shrove-tide until Easter day.