'Tis sure eleven by the sun, And now, her morning toilet done, Perfumed and powdered fair, My Madame Dives, smooth and bland -- The richest lady in the land -- Reclines upon her chair. Languidly hangs her idle wrist In those great beads of amethyst; Steadily her head Turns its two eyes, as if to say, Well, well, and here's another day To fatten and be fed. Honeycomb, cream and dainty fruit Have plumped her cheek, and silked her throat And ringleted that wig. And only princes' minions know Where blooms like these are made to blow -- A thousand crowns a sprig. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WESTERN CIVILIZATION by JAMES GALVIN ON ANOTHER'S SORROW, FR. SONGS OF INNOCENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE A HOLIDAY by LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE SONNET PREFIXED TO 'THE COMMONWEALTH & GOVERNMENT OF VENICE' by EDMUND SPENSER BRUCE: HOW THE BRUCE CROSSED LOCH LOMOND by JOHN BARBOUR S. BARNABAS by JOSEPH BEAUMONT HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 37 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |