Beside the high window, but partly withdrawn
And concealed by the fold of a gold-lacquered screen,
This admirable day-bed discovers the sheen
Of its hooped salmon satin and yellowing lawn.

On spindle legs, thin as a spider's, it stands.
The gilding has scaled to a faint silver tone.
A lavender dust, as of hours outgrown,
Drifts past on a quaver of old sarabands.

Bewilderingly fragile, it baffles decay
With the porcelain pinks on the ormolu spray
Twined about the Saxe clock. Hark! the weary sweet chime

Of the hour it strikes. At precisely this minute
The Duke would declare he was wasting his time
And the lady half-languidly rise from her spinet.

Poor flesh and blood lovers long dead, the fine bloom
Of your coquetry crumbles and smiles in this room.