Paris! It was enough, I made my bow, And took my leave. I seemed to touch the thread Of the blind labyrinth 'twas mine to tread. Where should they be, in truth, these too fond lovers, But in the land of all such lawless rovers: The land of Gautier, Bourget, Maupassant, Where still "you can" makes answer to "I can't:" The fair domain where all romance begins In a light borderland of venial sins, But deepening onwards, till the fatal day Vice swoops upon us, plead we as we may. Griselda's bonnet o'er the windmills thrown, Had surely crossed the Seine e'er it came down; And I, if I would find and win her back, Must earliest search the boulevards for her track: And so to Paris in my zeal I passed, Breaking my idol, mad Iconoclast. There is a little inn by Meudon wood Dear to Parisians in their amorous mood, A place of rendezvous, where bourgeois meet Their best beloved in congregation sweet: Clandestine, undisturbed, illicit loves, Made half romantic by the adjoining groves, So beautiful in spring, with the new green Clothing the birch stems scattered white between, Nor yet, in autumn, when the first frosts burn, And the wind rustles in the reddening fern, Quite robbed of sentiment for lovers' eyes, Who seek earth's blessing on a bliss unwise, And find the happy sanction for their state In nature's face, unshocked by their debate, As who should say "Let preachers frown their fill, Here one approves. 'Tis Eden with us still."