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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=508738" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Death Of Marie Toro</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">We're taking Marie Toro to her home in P&egrave;re-La-Chaise;<br>We're taking Marie Toro to her last resting-place.<br>Behold! her hearse is hung with wreaths till everything is hid<br>Except the blossoms heaping high upon her coffin lid.<br>A week ago she roamed the street, a draggle and a slut,<br>A by-word of the Boulevard and everybody's butt;<br>A week ago she haunted us, we heard her whining cry,<br>We brushed aside the broken blooms she pestered us to buy;<br>A week ago she had not where to rest her weary head . . .<br>But now, oh, follow, follow on, for Marie Toro's dead.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh Marie, she was once a queen -- ah yes, a queen of queens.<br>High-throned above the Carnival she held her splendid sway.<br>For four-and-twenty crashing hours she knew what glory means,<br>The cheers of half a million throats, the d&eacute;lire of a day.<br>Yet she was only one of us, a little sewing-girl,<br>Though far the loveliest and best of all our laughing band;<br>Then Fortune beckoned; off she danced, amid the dizzy whirl,<br>And we who once might kiss her cheek were proud to kiss her hand.<br>For swiftly as a star she soared; she had her every wish;<br>We saw her roped with pearls of price, with princes at her call;<br>And yet, and yet I think her dreams were of the old Boul' Mich',</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And yet I'm sure within her heart she loved us best of all.<br>For one night in the Purple Pig, upon the rue Saint-Jacques,<br>We laughed and quaffed . . . a limousine came swishing to the door;<br>Then Raymond Jolicoeur cried out: &quot;It's Queen Marie come back,<br>In satin clad to make us glad, and witch our hearts once more.&quot;<br>But no, her face was strangely sad, and at the evening's end:<br>&quot;Dear lads,&quot; she said; &quot;I love you all, and when I'm far away,<br>Remember, oh, remember, little Marie is your friend,<br>And though the world may lie between, I'm coming back some day.&quot;<br>And so she went, and many a boy who's fought his way to Fame,<br>Can look back on the struggle of his garret days and bless<br>The loyal heart, the tender hand, the Providence that came<br>To him and all in hour of need, in sickness and distress.<br>Time passed away. She won their hearts in London, Moscow, Rome;<br>They worshiped her in Argentine, adored her in Brazil;<br>We smoked our pipes and wondered when she might be coming home,<br>And then we learned the luck had turned, the things were going ill.<br>Her health had failed, her beauty paled, her lovers fled away;<br>And some one saw her in Peru, a common drab at last.<br>So years went by, and faces changed; our beards were sadly gray,<br>And Marie Toro's name became an echo of the past.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You know that old and withered man, that derelict of art,<br>Who for a paltry franc will make a crayon sketch of you?<br>In slouching hat and shabby cloak he looks and is the part,<br>A sodden old Bohemian, without a single sou.<br>A boon companion of the days of Rimbaud and Verlaine,<br>He broods and broods, and chews the cud of bitter souvenirs;<br>Beneath his mop of grizzled hair his cheeks are gouged with pain,<br>The saffron sockets of his eyes are hollowed out with tears.<br>Well, one night in the D'Harcourt's din I saw him in his place,<br>When suddenly the door was swung, a woman halted there;<br>A woman cowering like a dog, with white and haggard face,<br>A broken creature, bent of spine, a daughter of Despair.<br>She looked and looked, as to her breast she held some withered bloom;<br>&quot;Too late! Too late! . . . they all are dead and gone,&quot; I heard her say.<br>And once again her weary eyes went round and round the room;<br>&quot;Not one of all I used to know . . .&quot; she turned to go away . . .<br>But quick I saw the old man start: &quot;Ah no!&quot; he cried, &quot;not all.<br>Oh Marie Toro, queen of queens, don't you remember Paul?&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;Oh Marie, Marie Toro, in my garret next the sky,<br>Where many a day and night I've crouched with not a crust to eat,<br>A picture hangs upon the wall a fortune couldn't buy,<br>A portrait of a girl whose face is pure and angel-sweet.&quot;<br>Sadly the woman looked at him: &quot;Alas! it's true,&quot; she said;<br>&quot;That little maid, I knew her once. It's long ago -- she's dead.&quot;<br>He went to her; he laid his hand upon her wasted arm:<br>&quot;Oh, Marie Toro, come with me, though poor and sick am I.<br>For old times' sake I cannot bear to see you come to harm;<br>Ah! there are memories, God knows, that never, never die. . . .&quot;<br>&quot;Too late!&quot; she sighed; &quot;I've lived my life of splendor and of shame;<br>I've been adored by men of power, I've touched the highest height;<br>I've squandered gold like heaps of dirt -- oh, I have played the game;<br>I've had my place within the sun . . . and now I face the night.<br>Look! look! you see I'm lost to hope; I live no matter how . . .<br>To drink and drink and so forget . . . that's all I care for now.&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And so she went her heedless way, and all our help was vain.<br>She trailed along with tattered shawl and mud-corroded skirt;<br>She gnawed a crust and slept beneath the bridges of the Seine,<br>A garbage thing, a composite of alcohol and dirt.<br>The students learned her story and the cafes knew her well,<br>The Pascal and the Panth&eacute;on, the Sufflot and Vachette;<br>She shuffled round the tables with the flowers she tried to sell,<br>A living mask of misery that no one will forget.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And then last week I missed her, and they found her in the street<br>One morning early, huddled down, for it was freezing cold;<br>But when they raised her ragged shawl her face was still and sweet;<br>Some bits of broken bloom were clutched within her icy hold.<br>That's all. . . . Ah yes, they say that saw: her blue, wide-open eyes<br>Were beautiful with joy again, with radiant surprise. . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A week ago she begged for bread; we've bought for her a stone,<br>And a peaceful place in P&egrave;re-La-Chaise where she'll be well alone.<br>She cost a king his crown, they say; oh, wouldn't she be proud<br>If she could see the wreaths to-day, the coaches and the crowd!<br>So follow, follow, follow on with slow and sober tread,<br>For Marie Toro, gutter waif and queen of queens, is dead.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+William+Service">Robert William Service</a><div class=q>
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We're taking Marie Toro to her last resting-place.
Behold! her hearse is hung with wreaths till everything is hid
Except the blossoms heaping high upon her coffin lid.
A week ago she ro..."></div>
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