Classic Poem

In “taking charge of your possessions when you saw them” you became a golden jay.
Scaramouche said you charmed his charm away,
but not his color? Yes, his color when you liked.
Of chiseled setting and black-opalescent dye,
you were the jewelry of sense;
of sense, not license; you but trod the pace
of liberty in market-place
and court. Molière,
the huggermugger repertory of your first adventure, is your own affair.

“Anchorites do not dwell in theatres,” and peacocks do not flourish in a cell.
Why make distinctions? The results were well
when you were on the boards; nor were your triumphs bought
at horrifying sacrifice of stringency.
You hated sham; you ranted up
and down through the conventions of excess;
nor did the King love you the less
nor did the world,
in whose chief interest and for whose spontaneous
Delight, your broad tail was unfurled.