Author George Eliot My lady's tongue is like the meadow blades,That cut you stroking them with idle hand.Nice cutting is her function: she dividesWith spiritual edge the millet-seed,And makes intangible savings. Tags Short Poems Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 Average: 5 (1 vote) Rate Log in or register to post comments