Classic Poem

Sirs, not any trick of yours
Can trap her in a net,
For fools to splutter at, and pass,
And, being fools, forget.

Nor think to flout her; such an one
She sets amongst her foes;
Nor dream to make a merchandise
Of a planet or a rose.

Run to her with a broken heart—
This is her way of old—
To strip the gilt cloak off her back
That one may walk in gold.

Prove yourselves of her house, her blood,
And she will share each thing;
Hereditary fields and stars,
And the silver hounds of Spring.