Page:Poet Lore, volume 34, 1923.djvu/326



How young he looks, how pale, How piteously frail. Strange, strange to look at him So careless of the crowd, so tense, so slim, And know that but for me He would not be. Thalberti, now, What a bear for strength; Breadth, length. Somehow I have a feeling Bébé is amused Whenever he's abused By Monsieur le Conducteur for his sins, No doubt he grins At all that poor man's threats Then straightway sees a vision and forgets Them all. Bah! I never could abide this hall. When first I played Camille Upon that stage, it made me feel As though my body, long returned to dust, Had risen up and tried to thrust Itself upon the notice of a host Of mortals, who regarded my slim ghost With hostile eyes. Pauvre petit. He is playing that flight of notes exquisitely. I shall insist upon some milk and bread Before he goes to bed Else someday—oh, hélas, my heart Is being pulled quite shockingly apart! The year I played da Rimini They fed me eggs and cream, Poor little me! I used to scream With temper when they made me choke them down.