The Star and the Garter

XXII THESE portraits, darling, are they yours? And yet there sticks the vital fact That these, as you, are women. Lures The devil of the inexact With subtle leasing? Nay! O nay! I'll catch him with a cord, draw out By a bent fish-hook through his snout, Give to my maiden for a play. You, they, and dinner and—what else ?— However unlike, coincide In composition verified Of final protoplasmic cells. Shall this avail to stagger thought, Confuse the reason, bring to nought The rosebud, in reflecting: Hem! What beauty hath the flower and stem? Carbon we know, and nitrogen, And oxygen—are these a rose? But this though everybody knows, That this should be the same for men They know not. Death may decompose, 50