Little Poems in Prose

XXXIX THOROUGHBRED SHE is ugly enough, in all conscience, and yet how delicious she is! Time and Love have set the mark of their claws upon her, and taught her cruelly how much of youth and freshness each minute and each kiss carry away. Verily, she is ugly! She is an ant, a spider, if you will; even a skeleton:—but also she is a love-draught, a magistry, a sorcery! Take her all in all, she is exquisite. Time has not been able to destroy the sparkling rhythm of her walk, or the indestructible elegance of her ap- parel. Love has not altered the suavity of her child’s breath; Time has torn no hair from her wild flowing mane, whence is exhaled in tawny perfume all the devil of South French vitality— Nîmes, Aix, Arles, Avignon, Narbonne, Tou- louse, towns amorous, charming, blessed of our father the Sun. Time and Love have attacked her tooth and nail, but in vain. They have diminished nothing