The Dust
It settles softly on your things,
Impalpable, fine, light, dull, gray:
Her dingy dust-clout Betty brings,
And singing brushes it away:
And it ’s a queen’s robe, once so proud,
And it ’s the moths fed in its fold,
It ’s leaves, and roses, and the shroud
Wherein an ancient saint was rolled.
And it is Beauty’s golden hair,
And it is Genius’ crown of bay,
And it is lips once warm and fair
That kissed in some forgotten May.…