Paris as I knew her
In the days ere this—
Paris, when I threw her
Many a careless kiss—
Paris of my pleasure,
Bright of eye and brow,
Town of squandered treasure—
Where’s that Paris now?
Song had shunned her traces,
Care was on her track:
All my young girls’ faces
Pale in folds of black!
Half the hearts were broken,
All the mirth was fled;
Scarce a vow was spoken,
Save above the dead....
Oh, but there’s a spirit
Sorrow cannot kill!
Even now I hear it
Swear the great “I Will!”
Paris, at your portal
Taps the ancient truth,
Laughing and immortal:
Never-conquered Youth!
R. W. K.
THE AZURE ROSE
CHAPTER I
IN WHICH, IF NOT LOVE, AT LEAST ANGER, LAUGHS AT LOCKSMITHS
Je ne connais point la nature des anges, parce que je ne suis qu’homme; il n’y a que les théologiens qui la connaissent.—Voltaire: Dictionnaire Philosophique.
He did not know why he headed toward his own room—it could hold nothing that he guessed of to welcome him, except further tokens of the dejection and misery he carried in his heart—but thither he went, and, as he drew nearer, his step quickened. By the time that he entered the rue du Val de Grâce, he was moving at something close upon a run.
He hurried up the rising stairs and into the dark hall, and, as he did so, was possessed by the sense that somebody had as hurriedly ascended just ahead of him. The door to his room was never locked, and now he flung it wide.