Some women herd such little things -- a box Oval and glossy, in its gilt and red, Or squares of satin, or a high, dark bed -- But when love comes, they drive to it all their flocks; Yield up their crooks; take little; gain for fold And pasture each a small, forgotten grave. When they are gone, then lesser women crave And squander their sad hoards; their shepherds' gold. Some gather life like faggots in a wood, And crouch its blaze, without a thought at all Past warming their pinched selves to the last spark. And women as a whole are swift and good, In humor scarce, their measure being small; They plunge and leap, yet somehow miss the dark. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO THE MEMORY OF BEN JONSON by JOHN CLEVELAND THE WAVING OF THE CORN by SIDNEY LANIER THE GOOD SHEPHERD by FELIX LOPE DE VEGA CARPIO ENGLAND AND AMERICA IN 1782 by ALFRED TENNYSON A TRIBUTE TO WILL ROGERS AND WILEY POST by ROSETTA THORSON BEACHLER |