Enough, dear Paris! We have laughed together, 'Tis time that we should part, lest tears should come. I must fare on from winter and rough weather And the dark tempests chained within Time's womb. Southwards I go. Each footstep marks the tomb Of a dead pleasure. Melun, Fontainebleau,— How shall I name them with the ghosts that roam In their deserted streets of long ago? I will not stop to weep. Before me lie Lands larger in their purpose, and with dreams Peopled more purely; and to these I fly For ever from life's idler stratagems. France! thy white hand I kiss in suppliant guise, Too sad to love thee, and alas! too wise. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DITTY IN IMITATION OF THE SPANISH: ENTRE TANTO QUE L'AVRIL by EDWARD HERBERT MISS KILMANSEGG AND HER PRECIOUS LEG: HER MORAL by THOMAS HOOD SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: EDITOR WHEDON by EDGAR LEE MASTERS PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 42. AL-JAMIL by EDWIN ARNOLD A LEGEND OF MINNESOTA by LILLIAN ATCHERSON THE HULDRA-WOMAN by STOPFORD AUGUSTUS BROOKE CONFESSIONS by ROBERT BROWNING |