I respect Graves as a devoted and pretty good poet
but for whatever reason I've never warmed to him,
or felt any complete pleasure in his poems. But
one stanza has been in my head for as long as I can
remember, and I love it.
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?"
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