Page:Poet Lore, volume 34, 1923.djvu/328

 Tears  tears Ah well, forgive, lest someday you would be Forgiven by your Mother, eh, Marie? That chord Is like a newly hammered sword. Perhaps I was forgetting, little one, That Bébé is your son. If then I pledged you to a great career After all's said, you did not fail, my dear. Seventeen Can it have been That many years since Bébé came? Étienne looks much the same; A little thinner—oui, a bit more grey About the temples. My compatriots say I chose my son-in-law While yet Marie, a golden elf, was hid In pinafores. Ma foi! Perhaps I did! This box is stifling; must I die of heat? More roses, eh?—"To Marguerite From Edouard"—Pouf! and so they fill My arms with roses still. "To Iphigénie," "To Adrienne," "To Sappho"; lest I wonder when They loved me; lest I blow A little cold toward Romeo. Oui, thanks to Bébé they renew their tears For Desdemona dead these many years. Eh, well, the orchestration grows Magnificent. The close Will bring the roof upon us. What a night! Thalberti will delight In every roar. The house is crammed Packed to the roof jammed If then a fire should start? Mon cher! A fire would never dare! That night at Covent Garden! Even now I tremble when I think of it. Somehow A rag that had been used To oil a gun took flame. My arm was bruised Quite badly, I remember Bah! How dare.