Some proper beauty seem to own;
Thy chop is as a chop apart,
Fraught with a grace before unknown;
The very egg thou poachest seems
Some work of deft orfévrerie,—
A yolk of gold that chastely gleams
Through a thin shrine of ivory.
From thee no pale and wilted ghost,
Or branded by the blackening bar,
But crisp and cheery comes the toast,