That snowy chest awash
with gusto, passion, zest,
is a beauty’s superb spurt,
a swan rising from a splash,
and in that wave and supreme act
the dress is a palette richly freed
and opened to a gallant feast—
offered and by the hostess served.
And there can be no big doubt
that the sight that has so peeked
earns to be catalogued right now
as a landmark and a monument
on which a poet, either one or two,
ought to be like a necklace hanged
so that they may thus live and die
ever close and tight to their Muse.
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