To-day there is no cloud upon thy face, Paris, fair city of romance and doom! Thy memories do not grieve thee, and no trace Lives of their tears for us who after come. All is forgotten—thy high martyrdom, Thy rage, thy vows, thy vauntings, thy disgrace, With those who died for thee to beat of drum, And those who lived to see thee kingdomless. Indeed thou art a woman in thy mirths, A woman in thy griefs which leave thee young, A prudent virgin still, despite the births Of these sad prodigies thy bards have sung. What to thy whoredoms is a vanished throne? A chair where a fool sat, and he is gone! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO MY DEAR AND LOVING HUSBAND by ANNE BRADSTREET LINES WRITTEN TO HIS WIFE [WHILE ON A VISIT TO UPPER INDIA] by REGINALD HEBER THE CARELESS GALLANT by THOMAS JORDAN TO MY NINETH DECADE by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR SONG (2) by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI THE VOW OF WASHINGTON by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER POEM FOR PICTURE: TO A PORTRAIT BY EDWARD STEICHEN (RACHMANINOFF) by FRANK ANKENBRAND JR. |