'Tis sure eleven by the sun, And now, her morning toilet done, Perfumed and powdered fair, My Madame Dives, smooth and bland -- The richest lady in the land -- Reclines upon her chair. Languidly hangs her idle wrist In those great beads of amethyst; Steadily her head Turns its two eyes, as if to say, Well, well, and here's another day To fatten and be fed. Honeycomb, cream and dainty fruit Have plumped her cheek, and silked her throat And ringleted that wig. And only princes' minions know Where blooms like these are made to blow -- A thousand crowns a sprig. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EPISODE OF HANDS by HAROLD HART CRANE THE FACTORY; 'TIS AN ACCURSED THING! by LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON SWITZERLAND AND ITALY by RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE by CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH SHERIDAN NORTON THE LAST LULLABY by HENRY BATAILLE THE ARGO'S CHANTY by WILLIAM ROSE BENET THE LAPSE OF TIME by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT |