Elysees.
I cant get the smell of them out of my nostrils.
Dirty fellows, who dont believe in frills
Like washing. Ah, mon vieux, youd have to go
Out of business if you lived in Russia. So!
Weve given up being perfumers to the Emperor, have we?
Blaise,
Be careful of the hen,
Maybe I can find a use for her one of these days.
That eagles rather well cut, Martin.
But Im sick of smelling Cossack,
Take me inside and let me put my head into a stack
Of orris-root and musk.
Within the shop, the light is dimmed to a pearl-and-green dusk
Out of which dreamily sparkle counters and shelves of glass,
Containing phials, and bowls, and jars, and dishes; a mass
Of aqueous transparence made solid by threads of gold.
Gold and glass,
And scents which whiff across the green twilight and pass.
The perfumer sits down and shakes his head:
Always the same, Monsieur Antoine,
You artists are wonderful folk indeed.
But Antoine Vernet does not heed.
He is reading the names on the bottles and bowls,
Done in fine gilt letters with wonderful scrolls.
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