No More Music

The Porch was blazoned with geranium bloom; Myrtle and jasmine meadows lit the lea; With rose and violet the vale's perfume Languished to where the hyacinthine sea Dreamed tenderly . . . "And I must go," said he. He spoke in that dim, ghostly voice of his: "I was a singer; then the Was . . . and GAS." (I had to lean to him, no word to miss.) "We bought this little café nigh to Grasse; With sun and flowers my last few days will pass. "And music too. I have my mandolin: Say! Maybe you can strum on your guitar . . . Come on - we two will make melodious din, While Madame sings to us behind the bar: You'll see how sweet Italian folk-songs are." So he would play and I would thrum the while; I used to there every lovely day; His wife would listen with a sunny smile, And when I left: "Please come again," she'd say. "He seems quite sad when you have one away." Alas! I had to leave without good-bye, And lived in sooty cities for ayear. Oh, how my heart ached for that happy sky! Then, then one day my café I drew near - God! it was strange how I was gripped with fear. So still it was; I saw no mandolin, No gay guitar with ribbons blue and red; Then all in black, stone-faced the wife came in . . . I did not ask; I looked, she shook her head: "La musique est fini," was all she said.