Meet me in Paris

Paris

by Arthur Symons

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.

For Lunagirl - Meet me in Paris

Poetic Postcards