To a Red-Haired Beggar Girl

  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 roués 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 alleys 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 son
  To give to you.

  Then go, with no more ornament,
  Pearl, diamond, or subtle scent,
  Than your own fragile naked grace
  And lovely face.