My Paris is a land where twilight days Merge into violent nights of black and gold; Where, it may be, the flower of dawn is cold: Ah, but the gold nights, and the scented ways! Eyelids of women, little curls of hair, A little nose curved softly, like a shell, A red mouth like a wound, a mocking veil: Phantoms, before the dawn, how phantom-fair! And every woman with beseeching eyes, Or with enticing eyes, or amorous, Offers herself, a rose, and craves of us A rose's place among our memories. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WERENA MY HEART'S LICHT I WAD DEE by GRISELL BAILLIE INGRATEFUL [OR UNGRATEFUL] BEAUTY THREATENED by THOMAS CAREW A NOCTURNAL REVERIE by ANNE FINCH A DREAM, OR THE TYPE OF THE RISING SUN by JEAN ADAMS LATE AUTUMN by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM TREES IN WINTER by ARTHUR WILLIAM BEER SIC SEMPER INSURANTIBUS by MORRIS GILBERT BISHOP |