Sunday, August 30, 2009

Richard Lovelace, Vaudevillian

"See!" With what constant motion, even & glorious as the sun, Gratiana steers that noble frame, closing the door behind her.

"What beautiful flowers!" I say, lighting a cigar, "Soft as your breast, sweet as your voice that gives each winding law & poise--"

Swifter than the wings of fame, she beat the happy pavement by such a star made firmament, which now no more the roof envies & interjects, "It was your idea."

"My idea?" A puff of cigar smoke swells up high with Atlas even, bearing the brighter, nobler heaven & in her, all the deities.

"Sure," she explains, looking for a vase, as if each step trods out a lover's thought & the ambitious hopes he brought, chained to her brave feet with such art. "You know Amarantha just got out of the hospital & you told me when I visit her, I should take her flowers. Remember?"

"Yes, of course." Such sweet command & gentle awe as when she ceased, pausing to place the flowers in the vase, we sighing saw the floor lay paved with broken hearts.

"Well, I went to see her this afternoon &--" So did she move, so did she sing like the harmonious spheres that bring unto their rounds music's aid. "I thought about what you said & when she left the room, I took her flowers."

Which she performed such a way as all the enamored world will say the Graces danced & Apollo played.

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