Alas, that words like these should be but folly! <br />Behold, the Boulevard mocks, and I mock too. <br />Let us away and purge our melancholy <br />With the last laughter at the Ambigu! <br />Here all is real. Here glory's self is true <br />Through each regime to its own mission holy <br />Of plying still the world with something new <br />To cure its ache, or nobly souled or lowly. <br />One title Paris holds above the rest <br />Untouched by time or fortune's change or frown, <br />One temple of high fame, where she sits dressed <br />In youth eternal, and mirth's myrtle crown, <br />And where she writes, each night, with deathless hands, <br />``To all the glories--of the stage--of France.''<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-new-pilgrimage-sonnet-xix/
