The Little Old Women

  Deep in the tortuous folds of ancient towns,
  Where all, even horror, to enchantment turns,
  I watch, obedient to my fatal mood,
  For the decrepit, strange and charming beings,
  The dislocated monsters that of old
  Were lovely women—Laïs or Eponine!
  Hunchbacked and broken, crooked though they be,
  Let us still love them, for they still have souls.
  They creep along wrapped in their chilly rags,
  Beneath the whipping of the wicked wind,
  They tremble when an omnibus rolls by,
  And at their sides, a relic of the past,
  A little flower-embroidered satchel hangs.
  They trot about, most like to marionettes;
  They drag themselves, as does a wounded beast;
  Or dance unwillingly as a clapping bell
  Where hangs and swings a demon without pity.
  Though they be broken they have piercing eyes,
  That shine like pools where water sleeps at night;
  The astonished and divine eyes of a child
  Who laughs at all that glitters in the world.