Up into the sky I stare;
All the little stars I see;
And I know that God is there
O, how lonely He must be!
Me, I laugh and leap all day,
Till my head begins to nod;
He's so great, He cannot play:
I am glad I am not God.
Poor kind God upon His throne,
Up there in the sky so blue,
Always, always all alone . . .
"_Please, dear God, I pity You._"
Or else, sitting on the terrace of a cafe on the Boul' Mich', I sip
slowly a Dubonnet or a Byrrh, and the charm of the Quarter possesses me.
I think of men who have lived and loved there, who have groveled and
gloried, who have drunk deep and died. And then I scribble things like
this: