Classic Poem

Sent Me When I Was Ill

Fine-tissued as her finger-tips, and white
 As all her thoughts; in shape like shields of prize,
 As if before young Violet's dreaming eyes
Still blazed the two great Theban bucklers bright
That swayed the random of that furious fight
 Where Palamon and Arcite made assize
 For Emily; fresh, crisp, as her replies,
That, not with sting, but pith, do oft invite
More trial of the tongue; simple, like her,
 Well fitting lowlihood, yet fine as well,
—The queen's no finer; rich (though gossamer)
 In help for him they came to, which may tell
  How rich that him she'll come to;—thus men see,
  Like Violet's self e'en Violet's wafers be.