How thought you that this thing could captivate?

What are those graces that could make her dear,

Who is not worth the notice of a sneer,

To rouse the vapid devil of her hate?

A speech conventional, so void of weight,

That after it has buzzed about one’s ear,

‘Twere rich refreshment for a week to hear

The dentist babble or the barber prate;

A hand displayed with many a little art;

An eye that glances on her neighbor’s dress;

A foot too often shown for my regard;

An angel’s form — a waiting-woman’s heart;

A perfect-featured face, expressionless,

Insipid, as the Queen upon a card.





Lord Alfred Tennyson

More poems by Baron Alfred, Lord Tennyson