I'll touch you not, you much abus-ed rag, Poor slave of all those epidermic rites Performed by thousands who have come to drag Their cindery surface to this bowl's delights. This tattered hem I vow shall thus remain, These holes shall grow not till another time. You've had enough; that faint but lingering stain Shall take no fresh addition from my grime Respected, honored, I will leave you here For others' service -- or to join the dead. Nay, more! That pair of holes have roused my fear! I'd better stow you here beneath the bed Lest, rising in the dark, I do you hurt Trying to don you for an undershirt. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THERE WILL COME SOFT RAINS' by SARA TEASDALE THE SEVEN OLD MEN; TO VICTOR HUGO by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE UNDERTONES by GRACE HOLBROOK BLOOD TO WOMAN by GEORGE GORDON BYRON VOICES OF SPRING by JUNE ELLIOTT CARLSON |