TO YVETTE GUILBERT br br That was Yvette. The blithe Ambassadeurs br Glitters, this Sunday of the Fête des Fleurs; br Here are the flowers, too, living flowers that blow br A night or two before the odours go; br And all the flowers of all the city ways br Are laughing, with Yvette, this day of days. br Laugh, with Yvette? But I must first forget, br Before I laugh, that I have heard Yvette. br For the flowers fade before her: see, the light br Dies out of that poor cheek, and leaves it white; br And a chill shiver takes me as she sings br The pity of unpitied human things; br A woe beyond all weeping, tears that trace br The very wrinkles of the last grimace.