Poems (May)/Theodora
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THEODORA.
Since we know her for an angel Bearing meek the common load, Let us call her, Theodora, Gift of God!
Still so young that every summer Is a rose upon her brow,All her days are blooms detaching From a bough.
She is very slight, and graceful As the bending of a fern, As the marble figure drooping O'er an urn.
In her eyes are tranquil shadows Lofty thoughts alone can make, Like the darkness thrown by mountains O'er a lake.
If you speak, the slow returning Of her spirit from afar To their depths, is like the advent Of a star.
No one marvels at her beauty; Blended with a perfect whole,Beauty seems the just expression Of her soul.
For her lightest word or fancy, Unarrayed for human ear, Might be echoed by an angel Watching near.
Be a theme however homely. It is glorious at her will, Like a common air transfigured By a master's skill.
And her words, severely simple As a drapery Grecian-wrought, Show the clear symmetric outline Of her thought.
To disguise her limbs with grandeur Would seem strange as to dispose Gold and velvet round a statue's Pale repose.
But a robe of simplest texture Should be gathered to her throat, And her rippled locks part braided, Part afloat.
While a pendent spray of lilies In their folds should be arrayed,Or a waxen white camelia Lamp their shade.