For old times sake I cannot bear to see you come to harm;
Ah! there are memories, God knows, that never, never die.…”
“Too late!” she sighed; “I’ve lived my life of splendor and of shame;
I’ve been adored by men of power, I’ve touched the highest height;
I’ve squandered gold like heaps of dirt–oh, I have played the game;
I’ve had my place within the sun… and now I face the night.
Look! look! you see I’m lost to hope; I live no matter how…
To drink and drink and so forget… that’s all I care for now.”
And so she went her heedless way, and all our help was vain.
She trailed along with tattered shawl and mud-corroded skirt;
She gnawed a crust and slept beneath the bridges of the Seine,
A garbage thing, a composite of alcohol and dirt.
The students learned her story and the cafés knew her well,
The Pascal and the Panthéon, the Sufflot and Vachette;
She shuffled round the tables with the flowers she tried to sell,
A living mask of misery that no one will forget.
