Some women herd such little things -- a box Oval and glossy, in its gilt and red, Or squares of satin, or a high, dark bed -- But when love comes, they drive to it all their flocks; Yield up their crooks; take little; gain for fold And pasture each a small, forgotten grave. When they are gone, then lesser women crave And squander their sad hoards; their shepherds' gold. Some gather life like faggots in a wood, And crouch its blaze, without a thought at all Past warming their pinched selves to the last spark. And women as a whole are swift and good, In humor scarce, their measure being small; They plunge and leap, yet somehow miss the dark. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AN INTERNATIONAL EPISODE (1889) by CAROLINE KING DUER ONCE BY THE PACIFIC by ROBERT FROST THE PRIMROSE by ROBERT HERRICK THE BATTLE-CRY OF FREEDOM by GEORGE FREDERICK ROOT FESTE'S SONG (2), FR. TWELFTH NIGHT by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE |