Violets and mignonette, crowded close together,
Crowded close together on the corner of each street,
Through the chilling dampness of the misty weather,
Violets and mignonette—ah, so close together—
Making all the Paris day colorful and sweet!
Roses faintly touched with pink; see, a soldier
lingers
Close beside the flower-stand, dreaming of the day
When she broke a single bud with her slender fingers,
Pressed it to her wistful mouth—see, a soldier lingers
Dreaming of a summertime very far away.
Lilacs white and pure and new, fragrant as the
morning—
One pale widow, passing by, pauses for a space,
Thinking of the lilac tree that once grew, adorning
All a little cottage home, in life's fragrant morning;
Of a lilac tree that grew in a garden place.
Pansies for a thought of love, lilies for love's sorrow,
Bay leaves green as hopes that live, berries red
and brown;
Flowers vivid for a day, gone upon the morrow,
Flowers that are sweet as faith, that are sad as
sorrow—
Flowers for the weary souls of a weary town.
Violets and mignonette, crowded close together,
Crowded close together on the corner of each
street;
Singing of the summertime, through the misty
weather,
Violets and mignonette—ah, so close together—
Making all the Paris day colorful and sweet!
IV. ACROSS THE YEARS
(Marie Antoinette walked down the steps of a certain
Chapel on her way to the guillotine.)
They say a queen once walked along the marble steps
with grace,
To meet grim death by guillotine—a smile was on
her face,
A smile of scorn that lifted her above the howling
crowd,
A smile that mocked at pallid fear—a smile serene
and proud.
Yes, it was Marie Antoinette—she walked with
steady tread,
She sauntered down the marble steps with proudly
lifted head;
And there were those among the crowd who watched
with indrawn breath,
To see a queen walk out with smiles to keep a tryst
with death!
I stood beside those marble steps just yesterday, and
saw,
A bride upon a soldier's arm—a poilu brave who
wore
A Croix de Guerre upon his breast—and oh, they
smiled above
The busy throng that hurried by, unconscious of their
love.
And though, across the mist of years, I glimpsed a
fair queen's face,
A face that smiled, but scornfully, above her land's
disgrace—
I will remember, on those steps, the little new-made
wife,
Who came, her eyes all filled with trust, to keep
her tryst with life.
V. SUNLIGHT
The sun shines over Paris fitfully,
As if it really were afraid to shine;
And clouds of gray mist curl and twist and twine
Across the sky. As far as one can see
The streets are wet with rain, and suddenly
New rain falls in a straight, relentless line—
And silver drops, like needles, slim and fine,
Drip from the branches of each gaunt-limbed tree.
Ah, Paris, can the very wistful sky
Look down into the center of your heart,
That has been bruised by war, and torn apart—
The once glad heart that has been taught to sigh?
The sun is like your smile that flutters by
Like some lost dream, before the tear-drops start.
VI. THE LATIN QUARTER—AFTER
They were the brave ones, the gallant ones, the
laughing ones,
Who were the very first to go—to heed their coun-
try's call;
They were the joyous ones, the carefree ones, the
chaffing ones,
Who were the first to meet the foe, who were the
first to fall.
Artists and poets, they; the talented and youthful
ones—
All the world before their feet, their feet that loved
to stray;
We have heard about their lives; stories crude, and
truthful ones
Of the carefree lives they lived, in the yesterday.
Ah, the Latin Quarter now; boarded up, the most
of it,
Studios are bare, this year, and little models sigh,
For the ones who died for France, died and are the
boast of it,
Died as they had always lived, with their heads
held high!
But a spark of it remains, in forgotten places,
For I saw a blinded boy strumming a guitar,
Playing with his face a-smile, with the arts and
graces
Of a troubadour of old. He had wandered far.
Through the flaming hell of war—wandered far and
home again,
To the corner that he loved when his eyes could
see;
And he played a jolly tune, he who may not roam
again,
Played it on an old guitar—played it smilingly.
And I saw another sit at a tiny table,
In a dingy eating house; he had laughed and
drawn
Sketches on the ragged cloth, boasting he was able
Still to draw as well as most—with two fingers
gone....
VII. NOTRE DAME
Through colored glass, on burnished walls,
Soft as a psalm, the sunlight falls;
And, in the corners, cool and dim,
Its glow is like a vesper hymn.
And, arch by arch, the ceilings high
Rise like a hand stretched toward the sky
To touch God's hand. On every side
Is misty silence; and the wide
Untroubled spaces seem to tell
That Peace is come—and all is well!
A slender woman kneels in prayer;
The sunlight slants across her hair;
A pallid child in rusty black
Stands in the doorway, looking back....
A poilu gropes (his eyes are wide)
Along the altar rail. The tide
Of war has cast him brokenly
Upon the shore of life. I see
A girl in costly furs, who cries
Against her muff; I see her rise
And hurry out. Two tourists pause
Beside the grated chancel doors,
To wonder and to speculate;
To stoop and read a carven date.
In uniform the nations come;
Their voices are a steady hum
Until they feel some subtle thrill
That makes them falter, holds them still—
Bronzed boys, who shrugged and laughed at death,
They stand today with indrawn breath,
Half mystified.
The colors steal
Into my heart, and I can feel
The rapture that the artists knew
Who, centuries before me, drew
Their very souls into the glass
Of every window..... Hours pass
Like beads of amber that are strung
Upon a rainbow, frail and young.
Through mellow glass, on hallowed walls,
The twilight, like faint music, falls;
And in each corner, cool and dim,
The music is a splendid hymn.
And, arch on arch, the ceilings high
Seem like a hand stretched toward the sky
To touch a Hand that clasped a Cross—
FOR FRANCE, NEW-RISEN FROM THE LOSS,
AND PAIN AND FEAR OF BATTLE-HELL,
KNOWS PEACE, AT LEAST, AND ALL IS WELL!
VIII. SUNDAY MORNING
The streets are silent, and the church bells ring
Across the city like the silver chime
Of some forgotten memory. They bring
The phantom of another, sweeter time,
When war was all undreamed. They seem to say,
"Come back, come back, across the years of strife
"To One who reaches out a Hand today,
"A Hand that brings your dead again to life!"
A little white-haired woman hurries past,
A tiny prayer-book in one wrinkled hand;
Her eyes are calm, as one who knows at last
What only age may really understand;
That, as a rainbow creeps across the rain,
The God of Paris smiles above its pain!
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg