I'll not attempt it, dearest maid.

No, not in verse,

Synthetic, stately, classic, chaste,

Shall I rehearse—

Although in perfectly good taste—

A catalogue of every grace

That you inherit from your race.

Gracious and kind,

The gods your beauty gave to you,

And with a mind

These same kind gods endowed you, too;

That charming union is, I fear,

Somewhat uncommon on this sphere.

I have no doubt

That scores of poets chant your fame;

No doubt, about

A million suitors press their claim;

And fashion, elegance and wit

Are at your feet inclined to sit.

Penelope,

 Prev. P 2/177 next