Some women herd such little things--a box
Oval and glossy, in its gilt and red,
Or squares of satin, or a high, dark bed--
But when love comes, they drive to it all their flocks;
Yield up their crooks; take little; gain for fold
And pasture each a small forgotten grave.
When they are gone, then lesser women crave
And squander their sad hoards; their shepherds' gold.
Some gather life like faggots in a wood,
And crouch its blaze, without a thought at all
Past warming their pinched selves to the last spark.
And women as a whole are swift and good,
In humor scarce, their measure being small;
They plunge and leap, yet somehow miss the dark....