I

Andromache, I think of you. The Simois,
Little river that once shone with reflections
Of the majesty of your widows sorrow,
Great with your tears, that now sadly runs,

Brought back to life my fertile memory
As I was crossing the new Carrousel.
Old Paris is no more (the heart of a city
Changes sooner, alas, than the heart of a mortal);

In my minds eye only, I see barracks,
Rough-hewn capitals and columns, grass,
Blocks turning green in puddles, bric-a-brac
Scattered in windows, shining behind the glass.

There was a display, a menagerie,
And once I saw there, at the time of day
When Labor wakes under a clear, cold sky
And a dust storm rises from the highway,

A swan that somehow had escaped its cage,
Scraping webbed feet on the stony walk,
Over rough ground dragging its white plumage,
Near a dry stream bed opening its beak,

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