Tom'S Album Was Filled With The Pictures Of Belles Who Had Captured His Manly Heart, From The Fairy Who Danced For The Front-Row Swells To The Maiden Who Tooled Her Cart; But One Face As Fair As A Cloudless Dawn Caught My Eye, And I Said, "Who's This?" "Oh, That," He Replied, With A Skilful Yawn, "Is The Girl I Couldn't Kiss." Her Face Was The Best In The Book, No Doubt, But I Hastily Turned The Leaf, For My Friend Had Let His Cigar Go Out, And I Knew I Had Bared His Grief: For Caresses We Win And Smiles We Gain Yield Only A Transient Bliss, And We're All Of Us Prone To Sigh In Vain For "The Girl We Couldn't Kiss."