 |
| "A Lady" |
 |
| You are beautiful and faded like an old opera tune played upon a harpsichord; or like the sun-flooded silks of an eighteenth-century boudoir. In your eyes smoulder the fallen roses of out-lived minutes, and the perfume of your soul is vague and suffusing, with the pungence of sealed spice jars. Your half-tones delight me, and I grow mad with gazing at your blent colours. My vigor is a new-minted penny, which I cast at your feet. Gather it up from the dust, that its sparkle may amuse you. |
| Amy Lowell |