See that dishevelled head,
Its bronze curls all undone?
I am that one,
The stubborn slattern of your garden bed;
No sweetness for you here, but bittersweet
Admission that my hour must needs be fleet;
A frosty tang of wit, an autumn face,
Perchance the memory of some sharper grace,
That shone beneath the imperial yellow tiles
Nor needed stoop for princely sulks or smiles;
Tatterdemalion courage here, a ghost
To captain some obscure, defeated host . . .
Many the springtime maidens, crisp as snow . . .
Yet, hapless sir, we know
Your fate . . . to love me most.