To S. V. B.—June 15, 1940

You will not haunt the rue Vavin
Behind the old Rotonde we knew,—
Whose waiters called “les quat’ copains”
Henry and Stan and me and you.

You, with your merry wit, will not,
You, with your slouched and awkward grace,
O owlish infant polyglot!—
You will not haunt so sad a place.

The opal city in the mist
Of dusk, before the evening rain,
When topaz, rose and amethyst
The arch was echoed in the Seine;

The drives by moonlight through the Bois;
The thinned-out wood, the cared-for tree;
The elegance, the “Quant à moi,”
The “Now, old son, you listen to me!”

A story sold, a cheque from home—
All four of us would dine that day:
Apéritifs before the Dôme;
Then dinner at some smart café;

Where I would dance with Stan, while you
And Henry talked, or watched the floor;
Or bought pink drinks for girls we knew
A little, from the cheque before.

All of us knew our guarded truth:
We called, “L’addition!” not,”The cheque!”
I always ordered French vermouth,
So I could say, “Un export sec!“

And Henry would have much preferred
His brandy straight; but, ordered so,
What waiter ever would have heard
His “Bien-et moi, une fine à l’eau”?

⨝

Sad, sad, to call a place “so sad”,
That once was heaven and hell-on-wheels
To four hard-working, Paris-mad,
Eager, blasé, young imbeciles!

⨝

Yet, should you come in ghostly guise,
You will not haunt the rue Vavin:
Connecticut and her allies
You still will champion if you can;

But whence your soaring spirit flew,
You will not circle down to see
A Paris, lost no more to you,
Than lost to Henry, Stan, and me.