THE DEAD WANTON

She was so light, so frail a thing,

She had no wisdom but her face,

Which caught men's fancy like the Spring

Yet held them but a moment's space.

She is the youngest of the dead,

And so the great lean round her feet;

They strive to learn from her fair head

Why far-forgotten life was sweet.

For now she knows what Plato knows,

And lapped in languor she agrees

With Kant, and as her soft hair blows,

Smiling, she flouts Demosthenes.