Your hour of squandering and drunkenness,
Of wine-dashed lips and generous caress,
Of brows thorn-crowned and bodies crucified,--
O bid me to the feast.

Tomorrow when the hills are washed with fire,
Your door ajar against the flashing East,--
O fling it wide.

PARIS, 1919


III - MONTMARTRE

A rocky hill above the town,
Grey as the soul of silence,
Except where two white strutting domes
Stand aloof and frown
On the huddled homes
Of world-wept love and pain,--
They do not heed that tall disdain,
But sleep, grey, under the stars and the rain.

A woman, young, but old in love,
Carried her child across the square;
Her face was a dim drifting flame
To which her pyre of hair
Was a column of golden smoke.

Her eyes half told the secrets of