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...FROM THE SHORE by CARL SANDBURG TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON by RICHARD LOVELACE TO A GENTLEMAN & LADY ON THE DEATH ... CHILD NAMED AVIS by PHILLIS WHEATLEY WHEN HE EMERGED by MARGARET AHO LOVE'S LIKENINGS by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT THIRD BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 4 by THOMAS CAMPION TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 3. I SAW A VISION by EDWARD CARPENTER |