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...THE DESERTED VILLAGE by OLIVER GOLDSMITH RHOECUS by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL EBB by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER by WALLACE RICE IDYLLS OF THE KING: PELLEAS AND ETTARRE by ALFRED TENNYSON BEETHOVEN'S SEVENTH SYMPHONY by LYMAN WHITNEY ALLEN THE LOVE SONNETS OF PROTEUS: 113, TO ONE WITH HIS SONNETS by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |