Your sisters, whose airs are unpleasant,
Regard you with arrogant scorn--
With arrogant, uneasy scorn--
True, they have the pull, for the present,
But fear you, the fair youngest born.
They know that your glory is crescent,
And, though each uplifteth her horn,
Each feels that _her_ glory's senescent,
In spite of their duplicate scorn.