“Great poets,” complained François, “are as scarce as seventeen-year locusts—and when at last I develop into a great poet, the Commune proceeds to shoot me. If I were a bad poet now, shooting would be too good for me. Listen.”
Then standing a little way off, he read his poem with all the force and feeling of an actor. These were the lines—ordinary enough, but François’ reading made them respectable:
“We dream a turbid dream, all strife,
Full of sharp pain and ecstasy,
Pale ghosts of Love and Joy we see,
And call our dreaming, Life.
“We waken in the darkling hour,
The last before the dawn appears,
Shuddering, we see the Gate of Tears,
When lo! Immortal Light—”