CHICAGO MAY
vit
Ah, but the monstrous jewels that you wear,
Until you look like a shop window struck
By lightning, its white velvet soaked—these flare,
ure sparkles kindled in a mass of muck
By the great light—O God |-of the pure Sun,
Which you avoid “because it freckles one.”
Ah, yes, the rings that sink into your fat,
‘The chains and earrings, theirs no beauty faded1
You are worth hunting (after all) for that,
‘While there is one fair maiden that unaided
By this may fail to have her will of art
And me—God bless her for her loyal heart |
‘Men hunt the ermine for its fur; ‘tis said
Life's pedlars all have treasure in their load ;
‘The toad has got a jewel in its head—
O Christ of God | I wish you were a toad!
A toad is cold and clammy, it is true;
But you are hot and sticky, and smell too.
VIIL
““T thought I was worth something!” Yes, you are;
‘Worth what the jeweller and the old-clothes-man
‘And the pork-butcher offer. Soul's a star,
(And that is why no woman ever loathes man.)
Tf you've that star, how could I “ guess it, say,”
From the inspection of your Milky Way?