She was wearing the coral taffeta trousers
Some one had brought her from Ispahan
And the little gold coat with pomegranate blossoms,
And the coral hafted feather fan:
As she ran down a Kentish lane in the moonlight,
And skipped in the pool of the moon as she ran.
She cared not a rap for all the big planets,
For Betelgeuse or Aldebaran
And all the big planets cared nothing for her
That small impertinent charlatan,
But she climbed on a Kentish stile in the moonlight
And laughed at the sky through the sticks of her fan.
Thank you. That is all. (For now.)