Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/809

 THOMAS HOOD

Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly

Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly,

Loving, not loathing.

Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully,

Gently and humanly; Not of the stains of her, All that remains of her

Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny

Rash and undutiful: Past all dishonour, Death has left on her

Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers,

One of Eve's family Wipe those poor lips of hers

Oozing so clammily.

Loop up her tresses

Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses

Where was her home?

Who was her father? Who was her mother?

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