A New Pilgrimage, VII

Ah, Paris, Paris ! What an echo rings
Still in those syllables of vain delight !
What voice of what dead pleasures on what wings
Of Maenad laughters pulsing through the night !
How bravely her streets smile on me ! How bright
Her shops, her houses, fair sepulchral things,
Stored with the sins of men forgotten quite,
The loves of mountebanks, the lusts of kings !
What message has she to me on this day
Of my new life ? Shall I, a pilgrim wan,
Sit at her board and revel at her play,
As in the days of old ? Nay, this is done.
It cannot be ; and yet I love her well
With her broad roads and pleasant paths to Hell.