SPRING IN THE PARIS CATACOMBS

I saw strange bones to-day in Paris town,

Deep in the quarried dark, while over-head

The roar of glad and busy things went by —

Over our heads —

So many heads —

Deep down, deep down —

Those strange old bones deep down in Paris town:

Heads where no longer dwell —

Yet who shall tell!—

Such thoughts as those

That make a rose

Of a maid's cheek,

Filling it with such bloom —

All fearless of the unsuspected doom —

As flood wild April with such hushing breath

That Death himself believes no more in Death.

Yea! I went down

Out of the chestnuts and the girl-filled town,

Only a yard or two beneath the street,

Haunted a little while by little feet,

Going, did they but know, the self-same way

As all those bones as white as the white May

That roofs the orchards overhead with bloom.

Perhaps I only dreamed,

And yet to me it seemed

That those old bones talked strangely each to each,

Chattering together in forgotten speech —

Speaking of Her

That was so very fair,

Telling of Him

So strong

He is a song

Up there in the far day, where even yet

Fools sing of fates and faces

Even fools cannot forget.

Faces went by, as haughty as of old,

Wearing upon their heads the unminted gold

That flowers in blackness only,

And sad lips smiled softly, softly,

Knowing well it was too late

Even for Fate.

Yet one shape that I never can forget

Waved a wild sceptre at me, ruling yet

An empire gone where all empires must go,

Melting away as simply as the snow;

Yet no one heeded the flower of his menace,

As little heeded him as that One Face

That suddenly I saw go wandering by,

And saying as she went — “I — still — am — I!”

And the dry bones thereat

Rattled together, laughing, gossipping

Together in the gloom

That dared not sing,

The little trivial gossip of the tomb —

Ah! just as long ago, in their dry way,

They mocked at fairy faces and strong eyes

That of their foolish loving make us wise.