Although at heart perhaps—God! if it were

Only the face, only the hair!

If Jim had written to me as he did to-day

A year ago—and now it leaves me cold—

I know what this means, old, old, old!

Et avec ça—mais on a vécu, tout se paie.

That is not always true: there was my Mother—(we at least the dead are free!)

Yoked to the man that Father was; yoked to the woman I am, Monty too;

The little portress at the Convent School, stewing in hell so patiently;

The poor, fair boy who shot himself at Aix. And what of me—and what of me?