The pomp of capitals long left to rust Glows in her flesh and her ironic eyes. Gazing on her, old pageantries arise Of queens and splendid courtesans, whose lust Was power to loot a peacock throne, or thrust Satraps to battle for their beauty's prize. Thus Theodora flaunted, and none otherwise La Pompadour and Lais gone to dust. Her wit is a keen weapon wrought for war Against the grayness of democracy. No broadsword this, but a bright scimitar, Tempered in flame and edged with subtlety. Her art is life; in braver days than this She would have throned it with Semiramis. |