JOUR DES MORTS (Cimetière Montparnasse)
Sweetheart, is this the last of all our posies
And little festivals, my flowers are they
But white and wistful ghosts of gayer roses
Shut with you in this grim garden? Not to-day,
Ah! no! come out with me before the grey gate closes
It is your fête and here is your bouquet!
THE FOREST ROAD
The forest road,
The infinite straight road stretching away