Where do the lovely ladies go That make the earth a bed of flowers? Ladies, all frankincense and gold Who weep at dawn over their powers. Wanton, tender, idly cold, Each dealing forth a cicatrice. Sheba is still and, so we know, Is Deirdre with her waste sorrows. Nausicaa and Beatrice Have plucked the last of their tomorrows. Oblivious catacombs of mould Are flying girls these Aprils miss. Brief queens whose beauty is their foe, Treading behind the winds that blow, Whose loves from bad incline to worse -- When they have worked appointed woe, They drive for air upon a hearse, Seeking the comfort of a nurse. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LORD SPEAKS by KARLE WILSON BAKER DEDICATION by EVELYN BENHAM BULL FIFTY YEARS SPENT by MAXWELL STRUTHERS BURT |