On Violet’s Wafers, Sent Me When I Was Ill

Fine-tissued as her finger-tips, and white As all her thoughts; in shape like shields of prize, As if before young Violet’s dreaming eyes Still blazed the two great Theban bucklers bright That swayed the random of that furious fight Where Palamon and Arcite made assize For Emily; fresh, crisp as her replies, That, not with sting, but pith, do oft invite More trial of the tongue; simple, like her, Well fitting lowlihood, yet fine as well, —The queen’s no finer; rich (though gossamer) In help to him they came to, which may tell How rich that him she’ll come to; thus men see, Like Violet’s self e’en Violet’s wafers be.