She lay like a saint on her copper couch; <br /> Like an angel asleep she lay, <br />In the stare of the ghoulish folks that slouch <br /> Past the Dead and sneak away. <br /> <br />Then came old Jules of the sightless gaze, <br /> Who begged in the streets for bread. <br />Each day he had come for a year of days, <br /> And groped his way to the Dead. <br /> <br />"What's the Devil's Harvest to-day?" he cried; <br /> "A wanton with eyes of blue! <br />I've known too many a such," he sighed; <br /> "Maybe I know this . . . mon Dieu!" <br /> <br />He raised the head of the heedless Dead; <br /> He fingered the frozen face. . . . <br />Then a deathly spell on the watchers fell -- <br /> God! it was still, that place! <br /> <br />He raised the head of the careless Dead; <br /> He fumbled a vagrant curl; <br />And then with his sightless smile he said: <br /> "It's only my little girl." <br /> <br />"Dear, my dear, did they hurt you so! <br /> Come to your daddy's heart. . . ." <br />Aye, and he held so tight, you know, <br /> They were hard to force apart. <br /> <br />No! Paris isn't always gay; <br /> And the morgue has its stories too: <br />You are a writer of tales, you say -- <br /> Then there is a tale for you.<br /><br />Robert William Service<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-blind-and-the-dead/
