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.