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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=355388" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Monsieur Qui Passe</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">A purple blot against the dead white door<br>In my friend's rooms, bathed in their vile pink light,<br>I had not noticed her before<br>She snatched my eyes and threw them back to me:<br>She did not speak till we came out into the night,<br>Paused at this bench beside the klosk on the quay. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">God knows precisely what she said--<br>I left to her the twisted skein,<br>Though here and there I caught a thread,--<br>Something, at first, about &quot;the lamps along the Seine,<br>And Paris, with that witching card of Spring<br>Kept up her sleeve,--why you could see<br>The trick done on these freezing winter nights!<br>While half the kisses of the Quay--<br>Youth, hope,-the whole enchanted string<br>Of dreams hung on the Seine's long line of lights.&quot; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then suddenly she stripped, the very skin<br>Came off her soul,-a mere girl clings<br>Longer to some last rag, however thin,<br>When she has shown you-well-all sorts of things:<br>&quot;If it were daylight-oh! one keeps one's head--<br>But fourteen years!--No one has ever guessed--<br>The whole thing starts when one gets to bed--<br>Death?-If the dead would tell us they had rest!<br>But your eyes held it as I stood there by the door--<br>One speaks to Christ-one tries to catch His garment's hem--<br>One hardly says as much to Him--no more:<br>It was not you, it was your eyes--I spoke to them.&quot; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">She stopped like a shot bird that flutters still,<br>And drops, and tries to run again, and swerves.<br>The tale should end in some walled house upon a hill.<br>My eyes, at least, won't play such havoc there,--<br>Or hers--But she had hair!--blood dipped in gold;<br>And there she left me throwing back the first odd stare.<br>Some sort of beauty once, but turning yellow, getting old.<br>Pouah! These women and their nerves!<br>God! but the night is cold!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Charlotte+Mary+Mew">Charlotte Mary Mew</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=355388" data-title="Monsieur Qui Passe de Charlotte Mary Mew" data-description="A purple blot against the dead white door
In my friend's rooms, bathed in their vile pink light,
I had not noticed her before
She snatched my eyes and threw them back to me:
She did not speak till we came out into the night,
Paused at this bench b..."></div>
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