Through the street of St. Germain
March the tattered hosts of rain,
While the wind with vagrant fife
Whips their chilly ranks to life.
From the window I can see
Their ghostly banners blowing free,
As they pass to where the ships
Crowd about the wharves and slips.
There at day's end they embark
To invade the realms of dark,
And the sun comes out again
In the street of St. Germain.
