***

Nobody came to meet me
with a lantern,
Had to find my way up
the steps by weak moonlight
 
And there he was, under
the green lamp, and
With a corpse's smile
he whispered, 'Your voice
 
Is strange, Cinderella . . .'
Fire dying in the hearth,
Cricket chirping. Ah!
someone's taken my shoe
 
As a souvenir, and with
lowered eyes given me
Three carnations.
Dear mementoes,
 
Where can I hide you?
And it's a bitter thought That my little white shoe
will be tried by everyone.

1913

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