She rustles in with sweep of many laces, Settles her skirts and leans back, stiffly proud, Watching her entrance on her rivals' faces, Finding her glasses, peers between the crowd To glimpse the man who struts there, heavy-browed; Her satin bosom heaves, well corseted. Murmuring her approbation half aloud, She sits and breathes in gasps till Hamlet's dead. "To be or not to be." The dark man glowers. . . . Her polished finger-tips toy with her beads; She dotes on sweet Ophelia, likes her weeds, And charming madness, babbling to flowers. So while the artist on the stage is speaking, Sighing with sentiment, she sits there, creaking. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ASSUNPINK AND PRINCETON [JANUARY 3, 1777] by THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH ODE TO DUTY by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH PHAENOMENA: WHEN JUSTICE DWELT ON EARTH by ARATUS SATIRE: 4 by AULUS PERSIUS FLACCUS LOVE'S WISDOM by ALFRED AUSTIN SONNET (2) by JOACHIM DU BELLAY |