You saw her last, the ball-room's belle,
A souffle, 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.