Poems (Scudder)/On the Mosaic of a Byzantine Empress
ON THE MOSAIC OF A BYZANTINE EMPRESS
Dear little sovereign of long ago,
Against the dusty background olive-gold
Your purple robes hang rigid fold by fold,
In faultless arcs their jade-green linings show
How royal—from the long vermilion shoon
That prove your rank up to the massive crown
That hides your closely braided hair, if brown
Or dark or flaxen. Like the youngling moon
Each perfect brow of yours—and those wide eyes
Deep-lashed and solemn. Such a haughty mouth
Whose folded scarlet like a frost-nipt bud
Will yield its hidden sweetness in no wise
For all the coaxing of the light-winged south—
I love you well for all your scornful mood.
Against the dusty background olive-gold
Your purple robes hang rigid fold by fold,
In faultless arcs their jade-green linings show
How royal—from the long vermilion shoon
That prove your rank up to the massive crown
That hides your closely braided hair, if brown
Or dark or flaxen. Like the youngling moon
Each perfect brow of yours—and those wide eyes
Deep-lashed and solemn. Such a haughty mouth
Whose folded scarlet like a frost-nipt bud
Will yield its hidden sweetness in no wise
For all the coaxing of the light-winged south—
I love you well for all your scornful mood.
Anna or Theodora or Irene—
Whatever sweet, majestic name be yours,
A palace will I build for you with towers
Frail as the dreaming sprays of lilac seen
Against a twilit sky; with domes as light
As sun-gilt bubbles on a woodland brook;
With latticed casements triple-arched that look
On tiny courtyards paved with malachite,
Onyx or alabaster. There shall be
Close-carven sandalwood that smites the sense
Like clash of elfin cymbals. And I know
That once I have you under lock and key
Behind those jewelled doors you go not thence—
My little Empress of the long ago.
Whatever sweet, majestic name be yours,
A palace will I build for you with towers
Frail as the dreaming sprays of lilac seen
Against a twilit sky; with domes as light
As sun-gilt bubbles on a woodland brook;
With latticed casements triple-arched that look
On tiny courtyards paved with malachite,
Onyx or alabaster. There shall be
Close-carven sandalwood that smites the sense
Like clash of elfin cymbals. And I know
That once I have you under lock and key
Behind those jewelled doors you go not thence—
My little Empress of the long ago.