Open the door where they knock sighing. It's a humid receptive morning. All in voile dresses they enter: a receiving line of obsessions, twelve sorrel horses. They puff their gestures of regret, sorry they aren't marmalade, though they are, nor sponges, wet with consolation. Why do they breathe together like a bouquet? Why do they amuse themselves with mother-of-pearl necklaces? Where did they sleep that they awoke so many memories? Why, with violence, do they throw off their pretty wreaths? Twelve offers and not one would renounce you. Look at their tender repetitions, the blue eyes of their reputations. Immense virgin girls! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DE PROFUNDIS by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING INSTANS TYRANNUS by ROBERT BROWNING THE BLACK RIDERS: 1 by STEPHEN CRANE DEAD AUTUMN by BEULAH ALLYNE BELL MEN OF HARLAN by WILLIAM ASPENWALL BRADLEY THE RANTIN DOG THE DADDIE O'T by ROBERT BURNS THE CONTRAST BETWEEN TWO LORDS AT THEIR EXECUTION by JOHN BYROM |