V. SUNLIGHT

The sun shines over Paris fitfully,

As if it really were afraid to shine;

And clouds of gray mist curl and twist and twine

Across the sky. As far as one can see

The streets are wet with rain, and suddenly

New rain falls in a straight, relentless line —

And silver drops, like needles, slim and fine,

Drip from the branches of each gaunt-limbed tree.

Ah, Paris, can the very wistful sky

Look down into the center of your heart,

That has been bruised by war, and torn apart —

The once glad heart that has been taught to sigh?

The sun is like your smile that flutters by

Like some lost dream, before the tear-drops start.