Edna St. Vincent Millay

        The Silver Chaperone

I do so fear a woman's placid face,
so deftly still, becalmed in ambush styles;
the hidden wit beneath guerilla smiles
will flatten men so led to death by grace.
Your portrait hides a spot of wall, a space
unstained by smoke or dust; and yes, it's true--
I wilt below that still and silver you;
I linger, charmed by lips I can't replace.

And to this hour your image remains hung
upon that nail, and catches every glint
of light from any rival's eye as she
presumes to sit beneath you, helplessly
contriving ways to nail her charms among
your own-- yet never even makes a dent.