Somebody asks him a question, he does not answer, somebody else
does that.
There are voices, but one voice he does not hear, and yet he hears
it
all the time. Josephine! The Emperor puts
up his hand to screen his face.
The white light of a bright cloud spears sharply through the linden-trees.
`Vive lEmpereur! There are troops passing beyond the
wall,
troops which sing and call. Boom! A pink rose
is jarred off its stem
and falls at the Emperors feet.
Very well. I go. Where! Does
it matter? There is no sword to clatter.
Nothing but soft brushing gravel and a gate which shuts with a click.
Quick, fellow, dont spare your horses.
A whip cracks, wheels turn, why burn ones eyes
following a fleck of dust.
VII
Over the slate roof tall clouds, like ships of
the line, pass along the sky.
The glass-houses glitter splotchily, for many of their lights are
broken.
Roses bloom, fiery cinders quenching under damp weeds. Wreckage
and misery,
and a trailing of petty deeds smearing over old recollections.
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