To--day there is no cloud upon thy face, <br />Paris, fair city of romance and doom! <br />Thy memories do not grieve thee, and no trace <br />Lives of their tears for us who after come. <br />All is forgotten--thy high martyrdom, <br />Thy rage, thy vows, thy vauntings, thy disgrace, <br />With those who died for thee to beat of drum, <br />And those who lived to see thee kingdomless. <br />Indeed thou art a woman in thy mirths, <br />A woman in thy griefs which leave thee young, <br />A prudent virgin still, despite the births <br />Of these sad prodigies thy bards have sung. <br />What to thy whoredoms is a vanished throne? <br />A chair where a fool sat, and he is gone!<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-new-pilgrimage-sonnet-xiv/
