Open the door where they knock sighing. It's a humid receptive morning. All in voile dresses they enter: a receiving line of obsessions, twelve sorrel horses. They puff their gestures of regret, sorry they aren't marmalade, though they are, nor sponges, wet with consolation. Why do they breathe together like a bouquet? Why do they amuse themselves with mother-of-pearl necklaces? Where did they sleep that they awoke so many memories? Why, with violence, do they throw off their pretty wreaths? Twelve offers and not one would renounce you. Look at their tender repetitions, the blue eyes of their reputations. Immense virgin girls! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE NIGHT OF TRAFALGAR by THOMAS HARDY BIRTHDAY OF DANIEL WEBSTER by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES AT THE SEASIDE by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON AT BAY RIDGE, LONG ISLAND by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH NEW YORK HARBOR by PARK BENJAMIN THE END OF THE SUNSET TRAIL by ALMA C. BINGHAM |