在这里你会发现的PoemThe Cloak Modelof poet John Crowe Ransom
'My son,' the stranger thus began, And drew me to the window side, 'Now here are beauties better than You ever have dreamed, or ever can. But yet beware!' he cried. A tidy citizen was he Although a dismal daffy one. 'See this one pose and pout for me And march around magnificently. But I'm immune, my son. 'Observe how ripe the lady's lips, How Titianesque the mop of hair, And where the great white shoulder dips Beneath its gauzy half-eclipse, You well may stare and stare. 'When I was young I said as you Are saying in your sapphic youth, That ah! such lips were certain cue, And look! her bosom's rhythm too, It signified her truth; 'Her broad brow meant intelligence And something better than a bone, Her body's curves were spirit's tents, Her fresh young skin was innocence Instead of meat that shone. 'I wish the moralists would thresh (Indeed the thing is very droll) God's oldest joke, forever fresh: The fact that in the finest flesh There isn't any soul.'
