White through the gate it gleamed and slept In shuttered sunshine: the parched garden flowers Their fallen petals from the beds unswept, Like children unloved and ill-kept Dreamed through the hours. Two blue hydrangeas by the blistered door, burned brown, Watched there and no one in the town Cared to go past it night or day, Though why this was they wouldn’t say. But, I the stranger, knew that I must stay, Pace up the weed-grown paths and down, Till one afternoon--there is just a doubt-- But I fancy I heard a tiny shout-- From an upper window a bird flew out-- And I went my way. THE SHADE-CATCHERS I think they were about as high As haycocks are. They went running by Catching bits of shade in the sunny street: “I’ve got one,” cried sister to brother. “I’ve got two.” “Now I’ve got another.” But scudding away on their little bare feet, They left the shade in the sunny street. LE SACRÉ-CŒUR (_Montmartre_) It is dark up here on the heights, Between the dome and the stars it is quiet too, While down there under the crowded lights Flares the importunate face of you, Dear Paris of the hot white hands, the scarlet lips, the scented hair, _Une jolie fille à vendre, très cher_; A thing of gaiety, a thing of sorrow, Bought to-night, possessed, and tossed Back to the mart again to-morrow, Worth and over, what you cost; While half your charm is that you are Withal, like some unpurchasable star, So old, so young and infinite and lost. It is dark on the dome-capped hill, Serenely dark, divinely still, Yet here is the Man who bought you first Dying of his immortal smart, Your Lover, the King with the broken heart, Who while you, feasting, drink your fill, Pass round the cup Not looking up, Calls down to you, “I thirst.” “A king with a broken heart! _Mon Dieu!_ One breaks so many, _cela peut se croire_, To remember all _c’est la mer à boire_, And the first, _mais comme c’est vieux_. Perhaps there is still some keepsake--or One has possibly sold it for a song: _On ne peut pas toujours pleurer les morts_, And this One--He has been dead so long!” SONG Love, Love to-day, my dear, Love is not always here; Wise maids know how soon grows sere The greenest leaf of Spring; But no man knoweth Whither it goeth When the wind bloweth So frail a thing.