Pickthorn Manor: 19

Amy Lowell

The Lady Eunice supped alone that day,
 As always since Sir Everard had gone,
In the oak-panelled parlour, whose array
 Of faded portraits in carved mouldings shone.
Warriors and ladies, armoured, ruffed, peruked.
 Van Dykes with long, slim fingers; Holbeins, stout
    And heavy-featured; and one Rubens dame,
 A peony just burst out,
With flaunting, crimson flesh.  Eunice rebuked
Her thoughts of gentler blood, when these had duked
    It with the best, and scorned to change their name.

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