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.

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