Clouds Without Water

Xx XI To-morrow is the day when Christ our Lord Were you a shop-girl and myself a clerk, Rose from the dead; therefore, the shopsare shut. Things might be better — we could surely meet Men may get drunk, or syphilized, or bored, With due umbrellas in the dripping Park Robbed, murdered, or regenerated — but ! And decorously spoon upona seat. But they must not get letters, be amused, This is the penalty one pays for rank Or do a thing they want to do till Monday; And fortune ! Ah, my Lola, I am dying Whence comes the universally-diffused And mad — or would God play me such a prank And steady popularity of Sunday. As to dictate such verse while you are crying? And yet I grumble ! avy other day Let me too weep, weep on! weep out my soul, I might receive a message from my Lola : Weep till the world of sense was wept away ” The siege is raised. Meet me as usual!’ Nay! And, dead, I reached you at the glimmering goal For me the sofa and Verlaine or Zola, Whither you had outrun me! Weep, I say, ; ; ws Teep! It is better. Th r hrism — Till Christ’s affair is over, and the town Weep! It is better. Thus one earns a chrism . . Who ever gained one by cheap cynicism? Runs a young resurrection of its own. g y p cy ag — 45