To Frank Harris

The square, with gravel paths and shabby lawns. Correct, the trees and flowers repress their yawns. The tradesman brings his favourite conceit, To air it, while he stifles with the heat.

In the kiosk, the military band. The shakos nod the time of the quadrilles. The flaunting dandy strolls about the stand. The notary, half unconscious of his seals.

On the green seats, small groups of grocermen, Absorbed, their sticks scooping a little hole Upon the path, talk market prices; then Take up a cue: I think, upon the whole. . . .

The loutish roughs are larking on the grass. The sentimental trooper, with a rose Between his teeth, seeing a baby, grows More tender, with an eye upon the nurse.

Unbuttoned, like a student, I follow A couple of girls along the chesnut row. They know I am following, for they turn and laugh, Half impudent, half shy, inviting chaff.

I do not say a word. I only stare At their round, fluffy necks. I follow where The shoulders drop; I struggle to define The subtle torso's hesitating line.

Only my rustling tread, deliberate, slow; The rippled silence from the still leaves drips. They think I am an idiot, they speak low; -- I feel faint kisses creeping on my lips.