LA COUREUSE 
 
Written in the Quartier Latin, Paris. 
 
A FADED skirt, a silken petticoat, 
A little jacket, a small shapely shoe, 
A toque.  A symphony in gray and blue, 
The child ripples, the conquering master-note 
Sublety.  Faint, stray showers of twilight float 
In shadows round the well-poised head ; dark, true, 
Joyous the eyes laugh—and are weeping too, 
For all the victory of her royal throat. 
 
She showed her purse with tantalizing grace : 
Some sous, a franc, a key, some stuff, soft grey. 
The mocking laughter trills upon her tongue : 
“ There’s all my fortune.”  “ And your pretty face ! 
What do you do ? ”  Wearily, “ I am gay.” 
“ What do you hope for ? ”  Simply, “ To die young.” 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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