Polyamory

"Jenny"

     Like a rose shut in a book 

In which pure women may not look, 

For its base pages claim control 

To crush the flower within the soul; 

Where through each dead rose-leaf that clings, 

Pale as transparent psyche-wings, 

To the vile text, are traced such things 

As might make lady’s cheek indeed 

More than a living rose to read; 

So nought save foolish foulness may 

Watch with hard eyes the sure decay; 

And so the life-blood of this rose, 

Puddled with shameful knowledge, flows