L'Envoi

We've finished up the filthy war;

We've won what we were fighting for...

( Or have we? I do n't know ).

But anyway I have my wish:

I'm back upon the old Boul’ Mich’,

And how my heart's aglow!

Though in my coat's an empty sleeve,

Ah! do not think I ever grieve

( The pension for it, I believe,

Will keep me on the go ).

So I'll be free to write and write,

And give my soul to sheer delight,

Till joy is almost pain;

To stand aloof and watch the throng,

And worship youth and sing my song

Of faith and hope again;

To seek for beauty everywhere,

To make each day a living prayer

That life may not be vain.

To sing of things that comfort me,

The joy in mother-eyes, the glee

Of little ones at play;

The blessed gentleness of trees,

Of old men dreaming at their ease

Soft afternoons away;

Of violets and swallows’ wings,

Of wondrous, ordinary things

In words of every day.

To rhyme of rich and rainy nights,

When like a legion leap the lights

And take the town with gold;

Of taverns quaint where poets dream,

Of cafes gaudily agleam,

And vice that's overbold;

Of crystal shimmer, silver sheen,

Of soft and soothing nicotine,

Of wine that's rich and old,

Of gutters, chimney-tops and stars,

Of apple-carts and motor-cars,

The sordid and sublime;

Of wealth and misery that meet

In every great and little street,

Of glory and of grime;

Of all the living tide that flows —

From princes down to puppet shows —

I'll make my humble rhyme.

So if you like the sort of thing

Of which I also like to sing,

Just give my stuff a look;

And if you do n't, no harm is done —

In writing it I've had my fun;

Good luck to you and every one —

And so

Here ends my book.