When I behold the strutting pride
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Of little fames that take the air,
Midget immortals, fain to stride
As those the deathless laurel wear,
Only of their poor selves aware,
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And of the little things they do,
Nosing for incense everywhere,—
I smile, Belovèd, and think of you.
Or when, divinely satisfied
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With her brief self that seems so fair,
Turning her head from side to side,
The solemn priestess of her hair,
As she the Trojan Helen were,
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Fairer than Paris ever knew,
I watch yon fleeting beauty there—
I smile, Belovèd, and think of you.
Of you that laugh yourself aside,
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Nor for the common plaudits care,
And neither advertise nor hide
All that is you, with more to spare,
So nonchalantly past compare,—
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You hear the vocal vain ones through,
Nor ever dream to claim your share—
I smile, Belovèd, and think of you.
Princess, not this nor yet next year
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Shall genius, mirth, and beauty too
Be found in such conjunction rare—
I smile, Belovèd, and think of you.