Spring In The Paris Catacombs

I saw strange bones to-day in Paris town,     Deep in the quarried dark, while over-head     The roar of glad and busy things went by -     Over our heads -     So many heads -     Deep down, deep down -     Those strange old bones deep down in Paris town:     Heads where no longer dwell -     Yet who shall tell! -     Such thoughts as those     That make a rose     Of a maid's cheek,     Filling it with such bloom -     All fearless of the unsuspected doom -     As flood wild April with such hushing breath     That Death himself believes no more in Death.     Yea! I went down     Out of the chestnuts and the girl-filled town,     Only a yard or two beneath the street,     Haunted a little while by little feet,     Going, did they but know, the self-same way     As all those bones as white as the white May     That roofs the orchards overhead with bloom.     Perhaps I only dreamed,     And yet to me it seemed     That those old bones talked strangely each to each,     Chattering together in forgotten speech -     Speaking of Her     That was so very fair,     Telling of Him     So strong     He is a song     Up there in the far day, where even yet     Fools sing of fates and faces     Even fools cannot forget.     Faces went by, as haughty as of old,     Wearing upon their heads the unminted gold     That flowers in blackness only,     And sad lips smiled softly, softly,     Knowing well it was too late     Even for Fate.     Yet one shape that I never can forget     Waved a wild sceptre at me, ruling yet     An empire gone where all empires must go,     Melting away as simply as the snow;     Yet no one heeded the flower of his menace,     As little heeded him as that One Face     That suddenly I saw go wandering by,     And saying as she went - "I - still - am - I!"     And the dry bones thereat     Rattled together, laughing, gossipping     Together in the gloom     That dared not sing,     The little trivial gossip of the tomb -     Ah! just as long ago, in their dry way,     They mocked at fairy faces and strong eyes     That of their foolish loving make us wise.     Paris: May, 1913.