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THE ICICLE QUEEN
Tall and stately, cold and fair,
She sits enthroned on an ivory chair,
And the sunlight is crisp in her yellow hair.
Cold, cold—so cold, in her haughty mien,
Men call her the 'Icicle Queen.'
They say she's no heart, or, if she has one,
'Tis made from a block of marble stone.
But I know there's a heart 'neath her stiff brocade—
A heart for home use, not a heart for parade.
Look close, look close; I can see it beat
And throb 'gainst her busk;
Whilst, sweet as musk,
Is the tremulous breath she draws between
Her pearly teeth, save by me unseen,
