The Pompadour in Art: I

Would'st thou go back to that white nakedness
Among the dark trees glinting in the sun,
Their feet white marble where the cool brooks run,
Their frail, light fingers flushed with happiness?
A white dream in the hot day's breathlessness
Would'st thou enfold in thy hot, lustful arms?
Or would'st thou have no traffic with these charms,
Dost then indeed love primitive ugliness?
"To Nature" is thy cry, "abandon all
Voluptuous ornament and toilet tricks!"
Back to the healthy days before the fall
When mother Eve her food-foul fingers licks
And recks not of her heavy shapelessness,
Her dirty nails, her dark skin's hairiness?