Monsieur Qui Passe A purple blot against the dead white door In my friendโs rooms, bathed in their vile pink light, I had not noticed her before She snatched my eyes and threw them back to me: She did not speak till we came out into the night, Paused at this bench beside the klosk on the quay. God knows precisely what she saidโ I left to her the twisted skein, Though here and there I caught a thread,โ Something, at first, about โthe lamps along the Seine, And Paris, with that witching card of Spring Kept up her sleeve,โwhy you could see The trick done on these freezing winter nights! While half the kisses of the Quayโ Youth, hope,-the whole enchanted string Of dreams hung on the Seineโs long line of lights.โ Then suddenly she stripped, the very skin Came off her soul,-a mere girl clings Longer to some last rag, however thin, When she has shown you-well-all sorts of things: โIf it were daylight-oh! one keeps oneโs headโ But fourteen years!โNo one has ever guessedโ The whole thing starts when one gets to bedโ Death?-If the dead would tell us they had rest! But your eyes held it as I stood there by the doorโ One speaks to Christ-one tries to catch His garmentโs hemโ One hardly says as much to Himโno more: It was not you, it was your eyesโI spoke to them.โ She stopped like a shot bird that flutters still, And drops, and tries to run again, and swerves. The tale should end in some walled house upon a hill. My eyes, at least, wonโt play such havoc there,โ Or hersโBut she had hair!โblood dipped in gold; And there she left me throwing back the first odd stare. Some sort of beauty once, but turning yellow, getting old. Pouah! These women and their nerves! God! but the night is cold!

And Paris, with that witching card of Spring Kept up her sleeve,โwhy you could see The trick done on these freezing winter nights! While half the kisses of the Quayโ














































































































