Observations placeholder

Paris Leave

Do you remember, in Paris, how we two dined
On your Leave's last night,
And the happy people around us who laughed and sang,
And the great blaze of light.

And the big bow-window over the boulevard
Where our table stood,
And the old French waitress who patted your shoulder and
Told us that love was good.

(We had lingered so long watching the crowds that moved
In the street below,
And saying the swift dear things of Lovers newly met,
That she had guessed us so.)

I remember her smile, and the ring of your spurs
On the polished stair;
And the touch of your hand, and the clear November night,
And the flags everywhere.

I remember the Concorde, and the fountains' splash,
The black captured guns;
And the grey-haired men with their wives who wept and kissed, and
The lovers of their sons.

And the French girls with their poilus who linked their hands
To dance round us two,
And sang 'Ne passeront pas', till one broke loose and flung
Her arms wide and kissed you.

She was all France that night, and you brave Angleterre,
The unfailing friend;
And I cried, 'Vive la France', and we told each other again
The War was at an end.

It was so hard to believe it was really won,
And the waiting past;
That the years wherein we knew death were under our feet,
And our Love crowned at last...

I remember most now the faces of the girls,
And the still, clear stars.
We said we were glad later lovers would never know
The bitterness of wars.

The lamp of the courtyard gate was bright on the old
Ribbons on your breast;
And the songs and the voices died down the boulevards.
You said that Love was best.