10 Best Famous Visage Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Visage poems. This is a select list of the best famous Visage poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Visage poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of visage poems.

• All Famous Visage Poems

I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day, 
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play. 

And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same, 
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game. 

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. 
The rest clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast. 
They thought, "if only Casey could but get a whack at that. 
We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat." 

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake; 
and the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake. 

So upon that stricken multitude, grim melancholy sat; 
for there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat. 

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all. 
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball. 

And when the dust had lifted, 
and men saw what had occurred, 
there was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third. 

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell; 
it rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell; 

it pounded through on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat; 
for Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat. 

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place, 
there was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face. 

And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, 
no stranger in the crowd could doubt t'was Casey at the bat. 

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt. 
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt. 

Then, while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip, 
defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip. 

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, 
and Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there. 

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped -- 
"That ain't my style," said Casey. 

"Strike one!" the umpire said. 
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, 
like the beating of the storm waves on a stern and distant shore. 

"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand, 
and it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand. 

With a smile of Christian charity, great Casey's visage shone, 
he stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go on. 

He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew, 
but Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two!" 

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!" 
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed. 

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, 
and they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again. 

The sneer has fled from Casey's lip, the teeth are clenched in hate. 
He pounds, with cruel violence, his bat upon the plate. 

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, 
and now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow. 

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright. 
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light. 
And, somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout, 

but there is no joy in Mudville 
mighty Casey has struck out. 

 I

Blessed be this place,
More blessed still this tower;
A bloody, arrogant power
Rose out of the race
Uttering, mastering it,
Rose like these walls from these
Storm-beaten cottages -
In mockery I have set
A powerful emblem up,
And sing it rhyme upon rhyme
In mockery of a time
Half dead at the top.

II

Alexandria's was a beacon tower, and Babylon's
An image of the moving heavens, a log-book of the sun's journey and the moon's;
And Shelley had his towers, thought's crowned powers he called them once.

I declare this tower is my symbol; I declare
This winding, gyring, spiring treadmill of a stair is my ancestral stair;
That Goldsmith and the Dean, Berkeley and Burke have travelled there.

Swift beating on his breast in sibylline frenzy blind
Because the heart in his blood-sodden breast had dragged him down into mankind,
Goldsmith deliberately sipping at the honey-pot of his mind,

And haughtier-headed Burke that proved the State a tree,
That this unconquerable labyrinth of the birds, century after century,
Cast but dead leaves to mathematical equality;

And God-appointed Berkeley that proved all things a dream,
That this pragmatical, preposterous pig of a world, its farrow that so solid seem,
Must vanish on the instant if the mind but change its theme;

Saeva Indignatio and the labourer's hire,
The strength that gives our blood and state magnanimity of its own desire;
Everything that is not God consumed with intellectual fire.

III

The purity of the unclouded moon
Has flung its atrowy shaft upon the floor.
Seven centuries have passed and it is pure,
The blood of innocence has left no stain.
There, on blood-saturated ground, have stood
Soldier, assassin, executioner.
Whether for daily pittance or in blind fear
Or out of abstract hatred, and shed blood,
But could not cast a single jet thereon.
Odour of blood on the ancestral stair!
And we that have shed none must gather there
And clamour in drunken frenzy for the moon.

IV

Upon the dusty, glittering windows cling,
And seem to cling upon the moonlit skies,
Tortoiseshell butterflies, peacock butterflies,
A couple of night-moths are on the wing.
Is every modern nation like the tower,
Half dead at the top? No matter what I said,
For wisdom is the property of the dead,
A something incompatible with life; and power,
Like everything that has the stain of blood,
A property of the living; but no stain
Can come upon the visage of the moon
When it has looked in glory from a cloud.

Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth didst by my side remain,
Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad, exposed to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th' press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call,
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
Thy visage was so irksome in my sight;
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could:
I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot still made a flaw.
I stretched thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet;
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save homespun cloth i' th' house I find.
In this array 'mongst vulgars may'st thou roam.
In critic's hands beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known;
If for thy father asked, say thou hadst none;
And for thy mother, she alas is poor,
Which caused her thus to send thee out of door.

 Drowning is not so pitiful
As the attempt to rise
Three times, 'tis said, a sinking man
Comes up to face the skies,
And then declines forever
To that abhorred abode,
Where hope and he part company --
For he is grasped of God.
The Maker's cordial visage,
However good to see,
Is shunned, we must admit it,
Like an adversity.

 1
OVER the western sea, hither from Niphon come, 
Courteous, the swart-cheek’d two-sworded envoys, 
Leaning back in their open barouches, bare-headed, impassive, 
Ride to-day through Manhattan. 

Libertad!
I do not know whether others behold what I behold, 
In the procession, along with the nobles of Asia, the errand-bearers, 
Bringing up the rear, hovering above, around, or in the ranks marching; 
But I will sing you a song of what I behold, Libertad. 

2
When million-footed Manhattan, unpent, descends to her pavements;
When the thunder-cracking guns arouse me with the proud roar I love; 
When the round-mouth’d guns, out of the smoke and smell I love, spit their salutes; 
When the fire-flashing guns have fully alerted me—when heaven-clouds canopy my city with a
 delicate thin haze; 
When, gorgeous, the countless straight stems, the forests at the wharves, thicken with
 colors;

When every ship, richly drest, carries her flag at the peak;
When pennants trail, and street-festoons hang from the windows; 
When Broadway is entirely given up to foot-passengers and foot-standers—when the mass is
 densest;

When the façades of the houses are alive with people—when eyes gaze, riveted, tens of
 thousands
 at a time; 
When the guests from the islands advance—when the pageant moves forward, visible; 
When the summons is made—when the answer that waited thousands of years, answers;
I too, arising, answering, descend to the pavements, merge with the crowd, and gaze with
 them.


3
Superb-faced Manhattan! 
Comrade Americanos!—to us, then, at last, the Orient comes. 

To us, my city, 
Where our tall-topt marble and iron beauties range on opposite sides—to walk in the space
 between,
To-day our Antipodes comes. 

The Originatress comes, 
The nest of languages, the bequeather of poems, the race of eld, 
Florid with blood, pensive, rapt with musings, hot with passion, 
Sultry with perfume, with ample and flowing garments,
With sunburnt visage, with intense soul and glittering eyes, 
The race of Brahma comes! 

4
See, my cantabile! these, and more, are flashing to us from the procession; 
As it moves, changing, a kaleidoscope divine it moves, changing, before us. 

For not the envoys, nor the tann’d Japanee from his island only;
Lithe and silent, the Hindoo appears—the Asiatic continent itself appears—the Past, the
 dead, 
The murky night morning of wonder and fable, inscrutable, 
The envelop’d mysteries, the old and unknown hive-bees, 
The North—the sweltering South—eastern Assyria—the Hebrews—the Ancient of Ancients, 
Vast desolated cities—the gliding Present—all of these, and more, are in the
 pageant-procession.

Geography, the world, is in it; 
The Great Sea, the brood of islands, Polynesia, the coast beyond; 
The coast you, henceforth, are facing—you Libertad! from your Western golden shores 
The countries there, with their populations—the millions en-masse, are curiously here; 
The swarming market places—the temples, with idols ranged along the sides, or at the
 end—bonze,
 brahmin, and lama;
The mandarin, farmer, merchant, mechanic, and fisherman; 
The singing-girl and the dancing-girl—the ecstatic person—the secluded Emperors, 
Confucius himself—the great poets and heroes—the warriors, the castes, all, 
Trooping up, crowding from all directions—from the Altay mountains, 
From Thibet—from the four winding and far-flowing rivers of China,
From the Southern peninsulas, and the demi-continental islands—from Malaysia; 
These, and whatever belongs to them, palpable, show forth to me, and are seiz’d by me, 
And I am seiz’d by them, and friendlily held by them, 
Till, as here, them all I chant, Libertad! for themselves and for you. 

5
For I too, raising my voice, join the ranks of this pageant;
I am the chanter—I chant aloud over the pageant; 
I chant the world on my Western Sea; 
I chant, copious, the islands beyond, thick as stars in the sky; 
I chant the new empire, grander than any before—As in a vision it comes to me; 
I chant America, the Mistress—I chant a greater supremacy;
I chant, projected, a thousand blooming cities yet, in time, on those groups of
 sea-islands; 
I chant my sail-ships and steam-ships threading the archipelagoes; 
I chant my stars and stripes fluttering in the wind; 
I chant commerce opening, the sleep of ages having done its work—races, reborn, refresh’d;

Lives, works, resumed—The object I know not—but the old, the Asiatic, renew’d, as it must
 be,
Commencing from this day, surrounded by the world. 

6
And you, Libertad of the world! 
You shall sit in the middle, well-pois’d, thousands of years; 
As to-day, from one side, the nobles of Asia come to you; 
As to-morrow, from the other side, the Queen of England sends her eldest son to you.

7
The sign is reversing, the orb is enclosed, 
The ring is circled, the journey is done; 
The box-lid is but perceptibly open’d—nevertheless the perfume pours copiously out of the
 whole
 box. 

8
Young Libertad! 
With the venerable Asia, the all-mother,
Be considerate with her, now and ever, hot Libertad—for you are all; 
Bend your proud neck to the long-off mother, now sending messages over the archipelagoes
 to
 you; 
Bend your proud neck low for once, young Libertad. 

9
Were the children straying westward so long? so wide the tramping? 
Were the precedent dim ages debouching westward from Paradise so long?
Were the centuries steadily footing it that way, all the while unknown, for you, for
 reasons? 

They are justified—they are accomplish’d—they shall now be turn’d the other way also, to
 travel toward you thence; 
They shall now also march obediently eastward, for your sake, Libertad.

 When by my solitary hearth I sit,
 And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom;
When no fair dreams before my "mind's eye" flit,
 And the bare heath of life presents no bloom;
 Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,
 And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!

Whene'er I wander, at the fall of night,
 Where woven boughs shut out the moon's bright ray,
Should sad Despondency my musings fright,
 And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away,
 Peep with the moonbeams through the leafy roof,
 And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof!

Should Disappointment, parent of Despair,
 Strive for her son to seize my careless heart;
When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air,
 Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart:
 Chase him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright,
 And fright him as the morning frightens night!

Whene'er the fate of those I hold most dear
 Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow,
O bright-eyed Hope, my morbidfancy cheer;
 Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow:
 Thy heaven-born radiance around me shed,
 And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!

Should e'er unhappy love my bosom pain,
 From cruel parents, or relentless fair;
O let me think it is not quite in vain
 To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air!
 Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,
 And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!

In the long vista of the years to roll,
 Let me not see our country's honour fade:
O let me see our land retain her soul,
 Her pride, her freedom; and not freedom's shade.
 From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shed---
 Beneath thy pinions canopy my head!

Let me not see the patriot's high bequest,
 Great Liberty! how great in plain attire!
With the base purple of a court oppress'd,
 Bowing her head, and ready to expire:
 But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings
 That fill the skies with silver glitterings!

And as, in sparkling majesty, a star
 Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud;
Brightening the half veil'd face of heaven afar:
 So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud,
 Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shed,
 Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head!

 1
SOMETHING startles me where I thought I was safest; 
I withdraw from the still woods I loved; 
I will not go now on the pastures to walk; 
I will not strip the clothes from my body to meet my lover the sea; 
I will not touch my flesh to the earth, as to other flesh, to renew me.

O how can it be that the ground does not sicken? 
How can you be alive, you growths of spring? 
How can you furnish health, you blood of herbs, roots, orchards, grain? 
Are they not continually putting distemper’d corpses within you? 
Is not every continent work’d over and over with sour dead?

Where have you disposed of their carcasses? 
Those drunkards and gluttons of so many generations; 
Where have you drawn off all the foul liquid and meat? 
I do not see any of it upon you to-day—or perhaps I am deceiv’d; 
I will run a furrow with my plough—I will press my spade through the sod, and turn it
 up
 underneath;
I am sure I shall expose some of the foul meat. 

2
Behold this compost! behold it well! 
Perhaps every mite has once form’d part of a sick person—Yet behold! 
The grass of spring covers the prairies, 
The bean bursts noislessly through the mould in the garden,
The delicate spear of the onion pierces upward, 
The apple-buds cluster together on the apple-branches, 
The resurrection of the wheat appears with pale visage out of its graves, 
The tinge awakes over the willow-tree and the mulberry-tree, 
The he-birds carol mornings and evenings, while the she-birds sit on their nests,
The young of poultry break through the hatch’d eggs, 
The new-born of animals appear—the calf is dropt from the cow, the colt from the
 mare, 
Out of its little hill faithfully rise the potato’s dark green leaves, 
Out of its hill rises the yellow maize-stalk—the lilacs bloom in the door-yards; 
The summer growth is innocent and disdainful above all those strata of sour dead.

What chemistry! 
That the winds are really not infectious, 
That this is no cheat, this transparent green-wash of the sea, which is so amorous after
 me, 
That it is safe to allow it to lick my naked body all over with its tongues, 
That it will not endanger me with the fevers that have deposited themselves in it,
That all is clean forever and forever. 
That the cool drink from the well tastes so good, 
That blackberries are so flavorous and juicy, 
That the fruits of the apple-orchard, and of the orange-orchard—that melons, grapes,
 peaches, plums, will none of them poison me, 
That when I recline on the grass I do not catch any disease,
Though probably every spear of grass rises out of what was once a catching disease. 

3
Now I am terrified at the Earth! it is that calm and patient, 
It grows such sweet things out of such corruptions, 
It turns harmless and stainless on its axis, with such endless successions of
 diseas’d
 corpses, 
It distils such exquisite winds out of such infused fetor,
It renews with such unwitting looks, its prodigal, annual, sumptuous crops, 
It gives such divine materials to men, and accepts such leavings from them at last.

 84 Thee the ancientest peer, Duke of Burgundy, rose from the monarch's right hand, red as wines
85 From his mountains; an odor of war, like a ripe vineyard, rose from his garments,
86 And the chamber became as a clouded sky; o'er the council he stretch'd his red limbs,
87 Cloth'd in flames of crimson; as a ripe vineyard stretches over sheaves of corn,
88 The fierce Duke hung over the council; around him crowd, weeping in his burning robe,
89 A bright cloud of infant souls; his words fall like purple autumn on the sheaves:
90 "Shall this marble built heaven become a clay cottage, this earth an oak stool and these mowers
91 From the Atlantic mountains mow down all this great starry harvest of six thousand years?
92 And shall Necker, the hind of Geneva, stretch out his crook'd sickle o'er fertile France
93 Till our purple and crimson is faded to russet, and the kingdoms of earth bound in sheaves,
94 And the ancient forests of chivalry hewn, and the joys of the combat burnt for fuel;
95 Till the power and dominion is rent from the pole, sword and sceptre from sun and moon,
96 The law and gospel from fire and air, and eternal reason and science
97 From the deep and the solid, and man lay his faded head down on the rock
98 Of eternity, where the eternal lion and eagle remain to devour?
99 This to prevent--urg'd by cries in day, and prophetic dreams hovering in night,
100 To enrich the lean earth that craves, furrow'd with plows, whose seed is departing from her--
101 Thy nobles have gather'd thy starry hosts round this rebellious city,
102 To rouze up the ancient forests of Europe, with clarions of cloud breathing war,
103 To hear the horse neigh to the drum and trumpet, and the trumpet and war shout reply.
104 Stretch the hand that beckons the eagles of heaven; they cry over Paris, and wait
105 Till Fayette point his finger to Versailles; the eagles of heaven must have their prey!"
106 He ceas'd, and burn'd silent; red clouds roll round Necker; a weeping is heard o'er the palace.
107 Like a dark cloud Necker paus'd, and like thunder on the just man's burial day he paus'd;
108 Silent sit the winds, silent the meadows, while the husbandman and woman of weakness
109 And bright children look after him into the grave, and water his clay with love,
110 Then turn towards pensive fields; so Necker paus'd, and his visage was covered with clouds.

111 The King lean'd on his mountains, then lifted his head and look'd on his armies, that shone
112 Through heaven, tinging morning with beams of blood; then turning to Burgundy, troubled:
113 "Burgundy, thou wast born a lion! My soul is o'ergrown with distress.
114 For the nobles of France, and dark mists roll round me and blot the writing of God
115 Written in my bosom. Necker rise! leave the kingdom, thy life is surrounded with snares.
116 We have call'd an Assembly, but not to destroy; we have given gifts, not to the weak;
117 I hear rushing of muskets, and bright'ning of swords, and visages redd'ning with war,
118 Frowning and looking up from brooding villages and every dark'ning city.
119 Ancient wonders frown over the kingdom, and cries of women and babes are heard,
120 And tempests of doubt roll around me, and fierce sorrows, because of the nobles of France.
121 Depart! answer not! for the tempest must fall, as in years that are passed away."

 Five hours, (and who can do it less in?)
By haughty Celia spent in dressing;
The goddess from her chamber issues,
Arrayed in lace, brocades, and tissues.
Strephon, who found the room was void
And Betty otherwise employed,
Stole in and took a strict survey
Of all the litter as it lay;
Whereof, to make the matter clear,
An inventory follows here.
And first a dirty smock appeared,
Beneath the arm-pits well besmeared.
Strephon, the rogue, displayed it wide
And turned it round on every side.
On such a point few words are best,
And Strephon bids us guess the rest;
And swears how damnably the men lie
In calling Celia sweet and cleanly.
Now listen while he next produces
The various combs for various uses,
Filled up with dirt so closely fixt,
No brush could force a way betwixt.
A paste of composition rare,
Sweat, dandruff, powder, lead and hair;
A forehead cloth with oil upon't
To smooth the wrinkles on her front.
Here alum flower to stop the steams
Exhaled from sour unsavory streams;
There night-gloves made of Tripsy's hide,
Bequeath'd by Tripsy when she died,
With puppy water, beauty's help,
Distilled from Tripsy's darling whelp;
Here gallypots and vials placed,
Some filled with washes, some with paste,
Some with pomatum, paints and slops,
And ointments good for scabby chops.
Hard by a filthy basin stands,
Fouled with the scouring of her hands;
The basin takes whatever comes,
The scrapings of her teeth and gums,
A nasty compound of all hues,
For here she spits, and here she spews.
But oh! it turned poor Strephon's bowels,
When he beheld and smelt the towels,
Begummed, besmattered, and beslimed
With dirt, and sweat, and ear-wax grimed.
No object Strephon's eye escapes:
Here petticoats in frowzy heaps;
Nor be the handkerchiefs forgot
All varnished o'er with snuff and snot.
The stockings, why should I expose,
Stained with the marks of stinking toes;
Or greasy coifs and pinners reeking,
Which Celia slept at least a week in?
A pair of tweezers next he found
To pluck her brows in arches round,
Or hairs that sink the forehead low,
Or on her chin like bristles grow.
The virtues we must not let pass,
Of Celia's magnifying glass.
When frighted Strephon cast his eye on't
It shewed the visage of a giant.
A glass that can to sight disclose
The smallest worm in Celia's nose,
And faithfully direct her nail
To squeeze it out from head to tail;
(For catch it nicely by the head,
It must come out alive or dead.)
Why Strephon will you tell the rest?
And must you needs describe the chest?
That careless wench! no creature warn her
To move it out from yonder corner;
But leave it standing full in sight
For you to exercise your spite.
In vain, the workman shewed his wit
With rings and hinges counterfeit
To make it seem in this disguise
A cabinet to vulgar eyes;
For Strephon ventured to look in,
Resolved to go through thick and thin;
He lifts the lid, there needs no more:
He smelt it all the time before.
As from within Pandora's box,
When Epimetheus oped the locks,
A sudden universal crew
Of humane evils upwards flew,
He still was comforted to find
That Hope at last remained behind;
So Strephon lifting up the lid
To view what in the chest was hid,
The vapours flew from out the vent.
But Strephon cautious never meant
The bottom of the pan to grope
And foul his hands in search of Hope.
O never may such vile machine
Be once in Celia's chamber seen!
O may she better learn to keep
"Those secrets of the hoary deep"!
As mutton cutlets, prime of meat,
Which, though with art you salt and beat
As laws of cookery require
And toast them at the clearest fire,
If from adown the hopeful chops
The fat upon the cinder drops,
To stinking smoke it turns the flame
Poisoning the flesh from whence it came;
And up exhales a greasy stench
For which you curse the careless wench;
So things which must not be exprest,
When plumpt into the reeking chest,
Send up an excremental smell
To taint the parts from whence they fell,
The petticoats and gown perfume,
Which waft a stink round every room.
Thus finishing his grand survey,
Disgusted Strephon stole away
Repeating in his amorous fits,
Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia shits!
But vengeance, Goddess never sleeping,
Soon punished Strephon for his peeping:
His foul Imagination links
Each dame he see with all her stinks;
And, if unsavory odors fly,
Conceives a lady standing by.
All women his description fits,
And both ideas jump like wits
By vicious fancy coupled fast,
And still appearing in contrast.
I pity wretched Strephon blind
To all the charms of female kind.
Should I the Queen of Love refuse
Because she rose from stinking ooze?
To him that looks behind the scene
Satira's but some pocky queen.
When Celia in her glory shows,
If Strephon would but stop his nose
(Who now so impiously blasphemes
Her ointments, daubs, and paints and creams,
Her washes, slops, and every clout
With which he makes so foul a rout),
He soon would learn to think like me
And bless his ravished sight to see
Such order from confusion sprung,
Such gaudy tulips raised from dung.