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.