I. br There’s a little square in Paris, br Waiting until we pass. br They sit idly there, br They sip the glass. br br There’s a cab-horse at the corner, br There's rain. The season grieves. br It was silver once, br And green with leaves. br br There’s a parrot in a window, br Will see us on parade, br Hear the loud drums roll— br And serenade. br br II. br This was the salty taste of glory, br That it was not br Like Agamemnon’s story. br Only, an eyeball in the mud, br And Hopkins, br Flat and pale and gory! br br III. br But the bugles, in the night, br Were wings that bore br To where our comfort was; br br Arabesques of candle beams, br Winding br Through our heavy dreams; br br Winds that blew br Where the bending iris grew; br br Birds of intermitted bliss, br Singing in the night's abyss; br br Vines with yellow fruit, br That fell br Along the walls br That bordered Hell. br br IV. br Death's nobility again br Beautified the simplest men. br Fallen Winkle felt the pride br Of Agamemnon br When he died.