Sonnets to a Red-Haired Lady - Part 16
A GAINST what background should I paint your head? ...
Relieved upon such paler gold as falls
Through groined and mullioned windows on the walls
Of storied minsters, crumbling like their dead?
I will not paint it, Kid! Your sort of red,
As full of pep as redhot cannon-balls,
Titians must splash across the frescoed halls. . . .
Mine ain't the art for it, when all is said.
My Sixteenth Wife told every one that called:
" When I was married my hair was so long
That I could sit on it! " The story palled
In time, and she that told it stole away
Into Oblivion ... haply I did wrong
To choke her with that hair? Ah, welladay!
Relieved upon such paler gold as falls
Through groined and mullioned windows on the walls
Of storied minsters, crumbling like their dead?
I will not paint it, Kid! Your sort of red,
As full of pep as redhot cannon-balls,
Titians must splash across the frescoed halls. . . .
Mine ain't the art for it, when all is said.
My Sixteenth Wife told every one that called:
" When I was married my hair was so long
That I could sit on it! " The story palled
In time, and she that told it stole away
Into Oblivion ... haply I did wrong
To choke her with that hair? Ah, welladay!
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