To A Brown Beggar-Maid

White maiden with the russet hair,     Whose garments, through their holes, declare     That poverty is part of you,     And beauty too.     To me, a sorry bard and mean,     Your youthful beauty, frail and lean,     With summer freckles here and there,     Is sweet and fair.     Your sabots tread the roads of chance,     And not one queen of old romance     Carried her velvet shoes and lace     With half your grace.     In place of tatters far too short     Let the proud garments worn at Court     Fall down with rustling fold and pleat     About your feet;     In place of stockings, worn and old,     Let a keen dagger all of gold     Gleam in your garter for the eyes     Of rous wise;     Let ribbons carelessly untied     Reveal to us the radiant pride     Of your white bosom purer far     Than any star;     Let your white arms uncovered shine,     Polished and smooth and half divine;     And let your elfish fingers chase     With riotous grace     The purest pearls that softly glow,     The sweetest sonnets of Belleau,     Offered by gallants ere they fight     For your delight;     And many fawning rhymers who     Inscribe their first thin book to you     Will contemplate upon the stair     Your slipper fair;     And many a page who plays at cards,     And many lords and many bards,     Will watch your going forth, and burn     For your return;     And you will count before your glass     More kisses than the lily has;     And more than one Valois will sigh     When you pass by.     But meanwhile you are on the tramp,     Begging your living in the damp,     Wandering mean streets and alley's o'er,     From door to door;     And shilling bangles in a shop     Cause you with eager eyes to stop,     And I, alas, have not a sou     To give to you.     Then go, with no more ornament,     Pearl, diamond, or subtle scent,     Than your own fragile naked grace     And lovely face.