XI
THOUGH purple robes of Tyrian
Or of Sidonian sheen,
Though essences Assyrian
Befit your festal mien,
You never shone so greatly
As when I saw you lately,
Clad simply and sedately,
In Livia's canteen.
On weary war-worn fighters,
Who guard the Empire's gate,
But set no store by writers,
Ashamed I saw you wait.
But, Chloe, though you shun me,
Your later mood has won me
To own, the ill you've done me
Adds glory to the State.
C. L. Graves.