The Portrait

 

She speaks always in her own voice

Even to strangers; but those other women

Exercise their borrowed, or false, voices

Even on sons and daughters.

 

She can walk invisibly at noon

Along the high road; but those other women

Gleam phosphorescent--broad hips and gross fingers—

Down every lampless alley.

 

She is wild and innocent, pledged to love

Through all disaster; but those other women

Decry her for a witch or a common drab

And glare back when she greets them.

 

Here is her portrait, gazing sidelong at me,

The hair in disarray, the young eyes pleading:

'And you, love? As unlike those other men

As I those other women?"

 

Robert Graves