The frilly ones with faint white wings
trailing the measure of their boots,
their dusty open golden things,
a pantomime of royal loot.

Trailing the measure of their boots,
how could those things be made to speak,
the pantomime of royal loot,
dreams more magnificent than meek?

How could those things be made to speak?
Their thinginess denies all pleasure.
Dreams more magnificent than meek
will hardly do to sop their leisure.

Their thinginess denies all pleasure–
the shiny things they panted for
will hardly do to sop their leisure
when all they want is wanting more.

The shiny things they panted for,
their dusty open golden things
when all they want is wanting more,
the frilly ones with faint white wings.