Enough, dear Paris! We have laughed together, <br />'Tis time that we should part, lest tears should come. <br />I must fare on from winter and rough weather <br />And the dark tempests chained within Time's womb. <br />Southwards I go. Each footstep marks the tomb <br />Of a dead pleasure. Melun, Fontainebleau,-- <br />How shall I name them with the ghosts that roam <br />In their deserted streets of long ago? <br />I will not stop to weep. Before me lie <br />Lands larger in their purpose, and with dreams <br />Peopled more purely; and to these I fly <br />For ever from life's idler stratagems. <br />France! thy white hand I kiss in suppliant guise, <br />Too sad to love thee, and alas! too wise.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-new-pilgrimage-sonnet-xx/
