 | Collected poems |  |
626
THE HOLOCAUST
“Heart-free, with the least little touch of spleen.”
—Maud.
Above my mantelshelf there stands
A little bronze sarcophagus,
Carved by its unknown artist's hands,
With this one word—Amoribus!
A little bronze sarcophagus,
Carved by its unknown artist's hands,
With this one word—Amoribus!
Along the lid a Love lies dead—
Across his breast his broken bow;
Elsewhere they dig his tiny bed,
And round it women wailing go:
Across his breast his broken bow;
Elsewhere they dig his tiny bed,
And round it women wailing go:
A trick, a toy—mere “Paris ware,”
Some Quartier-Latin sculptor's whim,
Wrought in a fit of mock despair,
With sight, it may be something dim,
Some Quartier-Latin sculptor's whim,
Wrought in a fit of mock despair,
With sight, it may be something dim,
Because the love of yesterday,
Had left the grenier, light Musette,
And she who made the morrow gay,
Lutine or Mimi, was not yet—
Had left the grenier, light Musette,
And she who made the morrow gay,
Lutine or Mimi, was not yet—
A toy. But ah! what hopes deferred,
(O friend, with sympathetic eye!)
What vows (now decently interred)
Within that “narrow compass” lie!
(O friend, with sympathetic eye!)
What vows (now decently interred)
Within that “narrow compass” lie!
627
For there, last night, not sadly, too,
With one live ember I cremated
A nest of cooing billets-doux,
That just two decades back were dated.
With one live ember I cremated
A nest of cooing billets-doux,
That just two decades back were dated.
1889.
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