My Paris is a land where twilight days
Merge into violent nights of black and gold;
Where, it may be, the flower of dawn is cold:
Ah, but the gold nights, and the scented ways!
Eyelids of women, little curls of hair,
A little nose curved softly, like a shell,
A red mouth like a wound, a mocking veil:
Phantoms, before the dawn, how phantom-fair!
And every woman with beseeching eyes,
Or with enticing eyes, or amorous,
Offers herself, a rose, and craves of us
A rose's place among our memories.
Arthur Symons's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Paris by Arthur Symons )
- A daily fun!, PARTHA SARATHI PAUL
- Ray of Hope, Col Muhamad Khalid Khan
- National flag., Gangadharan nair Pulingat..
- Examined, Lawrence S. Pertillar
- Trance in the rain, Nassy Fesharaki
- Azal se mauzood hoon..., Azhar Sabri
- Time Chases Me, Neela Nath
- Elimination, Hans Raj Sharma
- We have come thru..., bill costley
- The elements of loss, nick feiner