In a Cafè
Her face was the face of Age, with a pitiful smudge of Youth,
Carmine and heavy and lined, like a jester’s mask on Truth;
And she laughed from the red lips outward, the laugh of the brave who die,
But a ghost in her laughter murmured, “I lie—I lie!”
She pressed the glass to her lips as one presses the lips of love,
And I said: “Are you always merry, and what is the art thereof?”
And she laughed from the red lips outward the laugh of the brave who die,
But a ghost in her laughter murmured, “I lie—I lie!”