Poems (May)/Theodora

by Edith May

THEODORA.

Since we know her for an angel
 Bearing meek the common load,
Let us call her, Theodora,
   Gift of God!

{{{text}}}

Still so young that every summer
 Is a rose upon her brow,
All her days are blooms detaching
   From a bough.

{{{text}}}

She is very slight, and graceful
 As the bending of a fern,
As the marble figure drooping
   O'er an urn.

{{{text}}}

In her eyes are tranquil shadows
 Lofty thoughts alone can make,
Like the darkness thrown by mountains
   O'er a lake.

{{{text}}}

If you speak, the slow returning
 Of her spirit from afar
To their depths, is like the advent
   Of a star.

{{{text}}}

No one marvels at her beauty;
 Blended with a perfect whole,
Beauty seems the just expression
   Of her soul.

{{{text}}}

For her lightest word or fancy,
 Unarrayed for human ear,
Might be echoed by an angel
   Watching near.

{{{text}}}

Be a theme however homely.
 It is glorious at her will,
Like a common air transfigured
   By a master's skill.

{{{text}}}

And her words, severely simple
 As a drapery Grecian-wrought,
Show the clear symmetric outline
   Of her thought.

{{{text}}}

To disguise her limbs with grandeur
 Would seem strange as to dispose
Gold and velvet round a statue's
   Pale repose.

{{{text}}}

But a robe of simplest texture
 Should be gathered to her throat,
And her rippled locks part braided,
   Part afloat.

{{{text}}}

While a pendent spray of lilies
 In their folds should be arrayed,
Or a waxen white camelia
   Lamp their shade.