What's Past Is Prologue
An April Paris brought again
The sweet selfish stingless pain
Of younger springtimes, ignorant of
The poverty of proven love.
Evening, moving through the heat
And dust of the bright noisy street,
As one half goddess and half whore
Waited at the open door.
Laying quiet on the air
Like a fresco's floating hair,
She squeezed the heart as milkmaids squeeze
The udder caught against their knees.
Evening passed, and night came on,
Lighting softly, one by one,
Stars like arc-lamps in a town
Viewed from an airship upside down.
Night came on, who had no share
In pain that is unmixed with care,
The pain of springtimes ignorant of
The poverty of love.