A Pretty Woman

XIII.

Or is it of its kind, perhaps,

Just perfection—-

Whence, rejection

Of a grace not to its mind, perhaps?

XIV.

Shall we burn up, tread that face at once

Into tinder,

And so hinder

Sparks from kindling all the place at once?

XV.

Or else kiss away one's soul on her?

Your love-fancies!

—-A sick man sees

Truer, when his hot eyes roll on her!

XVI.

Thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose,—-

Plucks a mould-flower

For his gold flower,

Uses fine things that efface the rose:

XVII.

Rosy rubies make its cup more rose,

Precious metals

Ape the petals,—-

Last, some old king locks it up, morose!

XVIII.

Then how grace a rose? I know a way!

Leave it, rather.

Must you gather?

Smell, kiss, wear it—-at last, throw away!