My Paris is a land where twilight days <br />Merge into violent nights of black and gold; <br />Where, it may be, the flower of dawn is cold: <br />Ah, but the gold nights, and the scented ways! <br /> <br />Eyelids of women, little curls of hair, <br />A little nose curved softly, like a shell, <br />A red mouth like a wound, a mocking veil: <br />Phantoms, before the dawn, how phantom-fair! <br /> <br />And every woman with beseeching eyes, <br />Or with enticing eyes, or amorous, <br />Offers herself, a rose, and craves of us <br />A rose's place among our memories.<br /><br />Arthur Symons<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/paris-20/
