THE SALON

Posted by Admin on Tuesday, 25th March 2008, 00:00

Hushed the silken susurration –
whisperings of lovely gowns:
hushed the pithy conversation –
sophistry and quips from clowns.
Star-bright jewels, flashing, flaming,
underneath the chandeliers;
Watteau’s art, and Sèvres proclaiming
wealth and taste, abundant years.
Powdered footmen, taut and solemn,
line the gilded salon’s wall,
each a white and amber column
where the crimson curtains fall.
Cheeks of shell-pink alabaster
flush, neglected by the fan,
lips now part, and hearts beat faster,
moved by genius in man.
Sternest critics there assembled –
aesthetes of the day’s bon ton
in an ecstasy have trembled,
by a waltz or nocturne won.
Liszt and Sand, their eyes unlifted,
hear each chord or single note,
sent by hands divinely gifted
from the painted grand’s wide throat.

Lost in rapture’s golden haze,
Chopin plays.

T. C. Hudson

© T. C. Hudson.

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