How thought you that this thing could captivate? What are those graces that could make her dear, Who is not worth the notice of a sneer, To rouse the vapid devil of her hate? A speech conventional, so void of weight, That after it has buzzed about one's ear, 'Twere rich refreshment for a week to hear The dentist babble or the barber prate; A hand displayed with many a little art; An eye that glances on her neighbor's dress; A foot too often shown for my regard; An angel's form -- a waiting-woman's heart; A perfect-featured face, expressionless, Insipid, as the Queen upon a card.
Return to the Alfred Lord Tennyson Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; Idylls Of The King: Song From The Marriage Of Geraint