STILL to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast; Still to be powdered, still perfumed -- Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free, -- Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all the adulteries of art: They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON THE BIRTH OF A CHILD by LOUIS UNTERMEYER A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 19. TO AN ATHLETE DYING YOUNG by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN AMORETTI: 34 by EDMUND SPENSER I THINK I KNOW NO FINER THINGS THAN DOGS by HALLY CARRINGTON BRENT |