Classic Poem

I KNOW her, the thing of laces, and silk,
And ribbons, and gauzes, and crinoline,
With her neck and shoulders as white as milk,
And her doll-like face and conscious mien.
A lay-figure fashioned to fit a dress,
All stuffed within with straw and bran;
Is that a woman to love, to caress?
Is that a creature to charm a man?

Only listen! how charmingly she talks
Of your dress and hers — of the Paris mode —
Of the coming ball — of the opera-box —
Of jupons, and flounces, and fashions abroad.
Not a bonnet in church but she knows it well,
And Fashion she worships with downcast eyes;
A marchande de modes is her oracle,
And Paris her earthly paradise.

She's perfect to whirl with in a waltz;
And her shoulders show well on a soft divan,
As she lounges at night and spreads her silks,
And plays with her bracelets and flirts her fan;
With a little laugh at whatever you say,
And rounding her " No " with a look of surprise,
And lisping her " Yes, " with an air distrait ,
And a pair of aimless, wandering eyes.

Her duty this Christian never omits!
She makes her calls, and she leaves her cards,
And enchants a circle of half-fledged wits,
And slim attaches and six-foot Guards.
Her talk is of people, who're nasty or nice,
And she likes little bon-bons of compliments;
While she seasons their sweetness by way of spice,
By some witless scandal she often invents.

Is this the thing for a mother or wife?
Could love ever grow on such barren rocks?
Is this a companion to take for a wife?
One might as well marry a musical box.
You exhaust in a day her full extent;
'Tis the same little tinkle of tunes always;
You must wind her up with a compliment,
To be bored with the only airs she plays.