  Diana, out of Italy, my sister’s protÉgÉe, She came to us, with letters, for a little summer stay. Diana, she was beautiful, and yet she made me laugh— Forever and forever taking one eternal bath. She had lost her bow and arrow, she had lost her lingerie, But she was far from Venice and my sister’s protÉgÉe. And because of her distinction, and the wonder of design, Her color and her contour, surpassing any line, I braved a frowning family, I offered her my best, And worshipped her in silence as my sister’s chosen guest. As the flowers seek the sunlight, as the birds adore the air, So Diana loved the water, loved to comb her Titian hair. The neighbors talked of nothing but my sister Mary’s taste— Of vagaries and vanities, and time that went to waste. But when my sister came at last to claim our protÉgÉe, I was her only confidante, and comfort’s only ray; I was her only confidante in all the good old town, And she whispered: “Our Diana never owned a dressing gown; “Never owned a beaded bodice, never owned a veil of tulle; “Her gowns are made from sparkles of the waters of a pool; “And those who cry for draperies, arouse the gods of wrath, “For the gods possess their copies of ‘Diana at the Bath!’” |
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