Page:Poet Lore, volume 34, 1923.djvu/329

 That slim Rossetti matron sit and stare At Bébé with her burning eyes Raised passion-wise To drink him in? Mon Dieu! It is a sin For any woman to regard a child Like that. If then she smiled Into his eyes? But wait! When I was thirty-eight I left the stage in order to forget A young Italian student, daily met Beside the Arc de Triomphe. Thirty-eight The papers called me mad, they roared, they burned, Then suddenly grew unconcerned And left me to my fate. Ah well, I never shall forget the storms they raised When I consented to return! They praised The very scar upon my wrist, who knew Nothing of scars nothing of scars éhex! Wherefore the need? Comme ca, It is forgotten Bah! I must attend more sharply lest I bleed. This flood of silver nears the end, perhaps? —Garcon, my wraps.— Better to go before the aisles are blocked Then too, my silly nerves are shocked Beyond endurance. Wait! It is too late That flight of stars will be the end. Alors! Can I bear one note more? He is so brave, so beautiful, so wild, So much a child. That flight of stars that flight of stars Cheri! Il a fini.