Alas, that words like these should be but folly! Behold, the Boulevard mocks, and I mock too. Let us away and purge our melancholy With the last laughter at the Ambigu! Here all is real. Here glory's self is true Through each regime to its own mission holy Of plying still the world with something new To cure its ache, or nobly souled or lowly. One title Paris holds above the rest Untouched by time or fortune's change or frown, One temple of high fame, where she sits dressed In youth eternal, and mirth's myrtle crown, And where she writes, each night, with deathless hands, "To all the glories—of the stage—of France." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CITY VIGNETTE: DAWN by SARA TEASDALE FAREWELL TO LOVE by JOHN DONNE GOOD NIGHT AND GOOD MORNING by RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES THE HAPPY WARRIOR by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH FAREWELL TO SUMMER by GEORGE ARNOLD CELESTIAL HEIGHTS by ALFRED AUSTIN LINES WRITTEN IN LADY'S ALBUM OF DIFFERENT-COLOURED PAPER by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |