Der Rosenkavalier
four hours of geometric hats
wider than absurd:
clowns, dandies, maskers,
cutpurses dressed like prunes,
orbiting Alice Coote in the trouser role
while she kisses Sophie,
kisses the Marschallin,
sapphic pianissimo
cresting to arias on diva pouts.
the boorish Baron
galumphing after skirts,
froward madman,
cannot thwart the spell of the rose.
when it beams from tufted stars,
Sophie and Octavian blessed,
to emblazon their bosoms,
the frisson climbs with rapturous glee.
comical evil, orchestral sobs,
garish menageries,
the opera reeks of farce,
and yet wilts in awed whirls
away from the rose.
without such effloresce,
the plot languishes.
because of it, the audience
sighs on the way home.
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