To Rhoda, otherwise called Rohda

Greek Rose, if he men called the Greek
Had chanced to pass your way
When Greek meets Greek—then, as you know,
The band begins to play.

He would have drawn you on the spot
He liked them long and slim.
(How much more graceful I might seem
If I had sat for him!)

He would have splashed that sacred scene
Across resplendent spaces
In the Acts of the Apostles (all
With elongated faces)

He over whom the Gates of Hell
Shall tower but not prevail
Stood waiting at your Gate—and you
(How like you!) did not fail.

How many doors you oped for us
Quite different from Hell's
Castles in Spain, cafés in France,
Cathedrals and hotels.

He would have limned you in a blaze
Bursting those golden locks
Who know the keys of every door
(If not of every box).

Whose Muse was Beauty in the Gate
Had hailed you, not in vain
Queen of the Catalonian Port
Dear Door-Keeper of Spain.

But what wild horror, what regret
What fury and what shame
Had filled the Greek who found the race
That could not spell your name!
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