La Grisette

Ah, clemence! when I saw thee last   Trip down the Rue de Seine, And turning, when thy form had past,   I said, “We meet again,”— I dreamed not in that idle glance   Thy latest image came, And only left to memory’s trance   A shadow and a name. The few strange words my lips had taught   Thy timid voice to speak, Their gentler signs, which often brought   Fresh roses to thy cheek, The trailing of thy long loose hair   Bent o’er my couch of pain, All, all returned, more sweet, more fair;   Oh, had we met again! I walked where saint and virgin keep   The vigil lights of Heaven, I knew that thou hadst woes to weep,   And sins to be forgiven; I watched where Genevieve was laid,   I knelt by Mary’s shrine, Beside me low, soft voices prayed;   Alas! but where was thine? And when the morning sun was bright,   When wind and wave were calm, And flamed, in thousand-tinted light,   The rose of Notre Dame, I wandered through the haunts of men,   From Boulevard to Quai, Till, frowning o’er Saint Etienne,   The Pantheon’s shadow lay. In vain, in vain; we meet no more,   Nor dream what fates befall; And long upon the stranger’s shore   My voice on thee may cell, When years have clothed the line in moss   That tells thy name and days, And withered, on thy simple cross,   The wreaths of Père-la-Chaise!