On a Portrait of Mme Rimsky-Korsakov

Serene, not as a prize for conflict won,

But mark of never having had to fight,

Needing no mind, because too beautiful,

She sat embodying her unconcern

For all charades of love or symbolism.

Nicholas was inspecting a brass band,

Driving to lunch with Borodin and Cui,

Checking the full score of The Snow Maiden.

That dateless look, impersonal above

The coarse placing of the heart’s Hollywood,

Writes off poor Janey Morris as a paddler

In joy and agony, a pop-eyed clown

Skinny and thick-lipped with her pomegranate.

The Snow Maiden and the rest of the stuff

Attain the permanence of print, wax, and

Footnotes in treatises on orchestration.