On a Fan that Belonged to the Marquise de Pompadour
Chicken-skin, delicate, white, Painted by Carlo Vanloo, Loves in a riot of light, Roses and vaporous blue; Hark to the dainty frou-frou! Picture above if you can, Eyes that could melt as the dew-- This was the Pompadour's fan!
See how they rise at the sight, Thronging the OEil de Boeuf through, Courtiers as butterflies bright, Beauties that Fragonard drew, Talon-rouge, falbala, queue, Cardinal, Duke,--to a man, Eager to sigh or to sue,-- This was the Pompadour's fan!
Ah! but things more than polite Hung on this toy, voyez vous! Matters of state and of might, Things that great ministers do; Things that, maybe, overthrew Those in whose brains they began; Here was the sign and the cue,-- This was the Pompadour's fan!
Where are the secrets it knew? Weavings of plot and of plan? --But where is the Pompadour, too? This was the Pompadour's Fan! --_Austin Dobson_
My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a water'd shoot; My heart is like an apple-tree Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit; My heart is like a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these, Because my love is come to me.
Raise me a dais of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes; Carve it in doves and pomegranates, And peacocks with a hundred eyes; Work it in gold and silver grapes, In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys; Because the birthday of my life Is come, my love is come to me. --_Christina Georgina Rossetti_
Love in thy youth, fair maid, be wise, Old Time will make thee colder, And though each morning new arise Yet we each day grow older. Thou as heaven art fair and young, Thine eyes like twin stars shining: But ere another day be sprung, All these will be declining; Then winter comes with all his fears, And all thy sweets shall borrow; Too late then wilt thou shower thy tears, And I, too late, shall sorrow. --_Walter Porter_
Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days, Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes And marching single in an endless file, Bring diadems and faggots in their hands. To each they offer gifts after his will-- Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all. I, in my pleached garden, watch'd the pomp, Forgot my morning wishes, hastily Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day Turn'd and departed silent. I, too late, Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn. --_Ralph Waldo Emerson_
