And by a touch, of cunning art
Adorn the casket of the heart,
Where every grace,
Half hidden by its witching fold,
Seeks to betray a charm untold--
How envies each admirer bold
The bit of lace!

Still maidens' mind and garments change,
And so there comes a new exchange;
The real Valenciennes finds a strange
New resting-place,
Where tiny feet and ankles hide,
And where but for a shoe untied
No human eye had e'er espied
The bit of lace.

A crowded street, a sudden scare,
A little rush, a lengthy tear,
A snowy skirt that needs repair,
Decides the case.
And what each morn her footman missed
Hung from a dainty, dimpled wrist,
And ardent lovers fondly kissed
The bit of lace.

* * * * *

This tale is incomplete, I know,
But where else could the traveller go?