Lee, on his rise of ground, shut up his watch. It had been just a quarter of an hour Since Stuart gave the signal for the storm, And now it was over. All but the long dying.

Cudjo, the negro, watched from the pantry The smooth glissades of the dancing gentry, His splay-feet tapping in time to the tune While his broad face beamed like a drunken moon At candles weeping in crystal sconces, Waxed floors glowing like polished bronzes, Sparkles glinting on Royal Worcester And all the stir and color and luster Where Miss Louisa and Miss Amanda, Proud dolls scissored from silver paper, With hoopskirts wide as the front veranda And the gypsy eyes of a caged frivolity, Pointed their toes in a satin caper To the nonchalant glory of the Quality.