You sit, suspending your critique
Of Venuses and nymphs at play,
While a few scattered strollers creak
Slowly across the floor's parquet.

Beside you on the bench, your purse
(Capacious well-worn leather) shows
A slumped, collapsed look. You, no worse
For touring, strike a fresher pose -

On your smooth legs your forearms crossed.
Your blond hair, in a single fold
Over your shoulder, makes a glossed
And negligent descent of gold.

Though such natural grace and style
Seems something only art supplies,
You now, with a distracted smile,
Among the static beauties, rise.