A New Pilgrimage, XX

Enough, dear Paris ! We have laughed together,
Tis time that we should part, lest tears should come.
I must faro on from winter and rough weat!
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 lif
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.