If I were sly, I'd steal for you that cobbled hill, Montmartre, Josephine's embroidered shoes, St. Louis' oriflamme, The river on grey evenings and the bluebell-glass of Chartres, And four sarcastic gargoyles from the roof of Notre Dame. That wouldn't be enough, though, enough nor half a part; There'd be shells because they're sorrowful, and pansies since they're wise, The smell of rain on lilac-bloom, less fragrant than your heart, And that small blossom of your name, as steadfast as your eyes.…
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