Ideals. A horse has focussed in its eyes
Exaggerated visions of its rider,
So Mrs. Freudenthal now magnifies
A War-horse's importance—like a spider
She weaves her web, while brain and heart both burn
To join their ranks, to rally to their banner;
Beside the feeding of them, she must learn
To ape the face, the smile, the talk, the manner!
THE MANNER
Allow no personality to stamp
Its wayward lines upon your talk or dress;
Smooth out your facial furrows, on them clamp
The necessary look of nothingness.
You must acquire a careful conversation
Remember that War-horses of True Breed
Only feel interest—if ever—in relation
To other ones—and, never, never read!
Know though the names of authors, and conceivably
The names of their most fashionable book;
But never talk too far, or irretrievably
You blunder on the crafty fisher's hook.
Then music, as a rule, you love too well
To wish to hear. But if you go, you walk
About—if not too loud, it helps to swell
The frankly social impulse toward talk.
You simply love the Opera, and force
Your way in late, and romp from cage to cage;
The prima-donna is a well-known War-horse
Who fills the heart, the ear, the house, the stage!
If you see modern pictures, in their glass
Ecstatically examine the old strife
Between your food and figure—should he pass,
Discuss with friends the painter's private life.
Though, safety-first, you find it really best
To cast your rapture on the gilded air,
When you find pictures dead, but smartly drest,
Within the mansion of a millionaire.