Ah, Paris, Paris! What an echo rings br Still in those syllables of vain delight! br What voice of what dead pleasures on what wings br Of Maenad laughters pulsing through the night! br How bravely her streets smile on me! How bright br Her shops, her houses, fair sepulchral things, br Stored with the sins of men forgotten quite, br The loves of mountebanks, the lusts of kings! br What message has she to me on this day br Of my new life? Shall I, a pilgrim wan, br Sit at her board and revel at her play, br As in the days of old? Nay, this is done. br It cannot be; and yet I love her well br With her broad roads and pleasant paths to Hell.