Out of the ivy—he will say it was us boys—
Seigneur mon Dieu! the sacré soul of spies!
He would like to catch each dream that lies
Hidden behind our sleepy eyes:
Their dream? But mine—it is the moon and the wood that sees;
All my long life how I shall hate the trees!
In the Place d’Armes, the dusty planes, all Summer through
Dozed with the market women in the sun and scarcely stirred
To see the quiet things that crossed the Square—,
A tiny funeral, the flying shadow of a bird,