16. Sirens

 

Where Sirens thus encroach on womanhood,
Close by a sleepy noon in maiden nook,
Who counts epistles on her polished wood,
Turned off those pages of her homely book,
As if the harborage did grow itself,
That he should dare canvass for a plume,
Whether in natural oils would try herself,
Or cast for shadows in the dusky room.

But that horse therefore galloped in the briar,
Did not furlough long – for was steed.
If the ole’ China, cozy round the fire,
Should swallow all the tealeaves, let down lace;
Yet, how does womanhood, all freckled face,
Let dowry down to mythical miscreed?