TO YVETTE GUILBERT <br /> <br />That was Yvette. The blithe Ambassadeurs <br />Glitters, this Sunday of the Fête des Fleurs; <br />Here are the flowers, too, living flowers that blow <br />A night or two before the odours go; <br />And all the flowers of all the city ways <br />Are laughing, with Yvette, this day of days. <br />Laugh, with Yvette? But I must first forget, <br />Before I laugh, that I have heard Yvette. <br />For the flowers fade before her: see, the light <br />Dies out of that poor cheek, and leaves it white; <br />And a chill shiver takes me as she sings <br />The pity of unpitied human things; <br />A woe beyond all weeping, tears that trace <br />The very wrinkles of the last grimace.<br /><br />Arthur Symons<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/at-the-ambassadeurs/
