Chicken-skin, delicate, white, Painted by Carlo Vanloo, Loves in a riot of light, Roses and vaporous blue; Hark to the dainty frou-frou! Picture above, if you can, Eyes that could melt as the dew,-- This was the Pompadour's fan! See how they rise at the sight, Thronging the OEil de Boeuf through, Courtiers as butterflies bright, Beauties that Fragonard drew, Talon-rouge, falaba, queue, Cardinal, duke, -- to a man, Eager to sigh or to sue,-- This was the Pompadour's fan! All, but things more than polite Hung on this toy, voyez-vous! Matters of state and of might, Things that great ministers do; Things that, maybe, overthrew Those in whose brains they began;-- Here was the sign and the cue,-- This was the Pompadour's fan! Where are the secrets it knew? Weavings of plot and of plan?-- But where is the Pompadour, too? This was the Pompadour's fan! |