Ah, Paris, Paris! What an echo rings Still in those syllables of vain delight! What voice of what dead pleasures on what wings Of Mænad laughters pulsing through the night! How bravely her streets smile on me! How bright Her shops, her houses, fair sepulchral things, Stored with the sins of men forgotten quite, The loves of mountebanks, the lusts of kings! What message has she to me on this day Of my new life? Shall I, a pilgrim wan, Sit at her board and revel at her play, As in the days of old? Nay, this is done. It cannot be; and yet I love her well With her broad roads and pleasant paths to Hell. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LAST WORD by MATTHEW ARNOLD THE SHANNON AND THE CHESAPEAKE [JUNE 1, 1813] by THOMAS TRACY BOUVE SEVEN TIMES FOUR [ - MATERNITY] by JEAN INGELOW FOR LACK OF GOLD by ADAM AUSTIN THE CELESTIAL COUNTRY by BERNARD OF CLUNY ON A BIOGRAPHICAL DICTIONARY by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 19 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |