But beauty in a barefoot mood, revising edicts old.
There cupids turn the calendars to Michael Angelo,
The goya needs no gabardine, the rose no kimono;
And me, a maiden mendicant may ask an alms, forsooth,
As one who missed the rubrics in the litanies of youth.
THE COMMONPLACE
By the steps of the paper-box factory,
Or the gates where the Seraphim nod,