At Hertford House

Perfection now is tended and observed,
Not used; we hire the spawn of Caliban
For daily service. In our careful world
Inlay of purple-wood and tulip, curved
To mime the sheen of plumes and peacocks’ eyes,
Exists for inspection only. And the jars
Of apple-green and white, where wooing’s done
In panels after Boucher—such we prize
Too well to fill with roses. Chocolate, too,
Will not again be frothed in cups like these;
We move meticulously, ill at ease
Amid perfections. Why should a porcelain plaque
Where Venus pulls her pouting Adon on
Through beds of blushing flowers, seem unfit
For casual thumbprint? Ease is what we lack.
There’s a division nothing can make sweet
Between the clods of usage and the toys
We strum our senses with. But Antoinette
Ran her long tortoise-shell and silver comb
Through powdered yellow hair, and would have laughed
To think that use too mean for art or craft.