Paris, upspringing white and gold: Flamboyant arch and high-enscrolled War-sculpture, big, Napoleonic -- Fierce chargers, angels histrionic; The royal sweep of gardened spaces, The pomp and whirl of columned Places; The Rive Gauche, age-old, gay and gray; The impasse and the loved cafe; The tempting tidy little shops; The convent walls, the glimpsed tree-tops; Book-stalls, old men like dwarfs in plays; Talk, work, and Latin Quarter ways. May -- Robinson's, the chestnut trees -- Were ever crowds as gay as these? The quick pale waiters on a run, The round, green tables, one by one, Hidden away in amorous bowers -- Lilac, laburnum's golden showers. Kiss, clink of glasses, laughter heard, And nightingales quite undeterred. And then that last extravagance -- O Jeanne, a single amber glance Will pay him! -- "Let's play millionaire For just two hours -- on princely fare, At some hotel where lovers dine A deux and pledge across the wine!" They find a damask breakfast-room, Where stiff silk roses range their bloom. The garcon has a splendid way Of bearing in grand dejeuner. Then to be left alone, alone, High up above Rue Castiglione; Curtained away from all the rude Rumors, in silken solitude; And, John, her head upon your knees -- Time waits for moments such as these. Tampico. [Grace Hazard Conkling] Oh, cut me reeds to blow upon, Or gather me a star, But leave the sultry passion-flowers Growing where they are. I fear their sombre yellow deeps, Their whirling fringe of black, And he who gives a passion-flower Always asks it back. Which. [Corinne Roosevelt Robinson] We ask that Love shall rise to the divine, And yet we crave him very human, too; Our hearts would drain the crimson of his wine, Our souls despise him if he prove untrue! Poor Love! I hardly see what you can do! We know all human things are weak and frail, And yet we claim that very part of you, Then, inconsistent, blame you if you fail. When you would soar, 't is we who clip your wings, Although we weep because you faint and fall. Alas! it seems we want so many things, That no dear love could ever grant them all! Which shall we choose, the human or divine, The crystal stream, or yet the crimson wine? Apology. [Amy Lowell] Be not angry with me that I bear Your colours everywhere, All through each crowded street, And meet The wonder-light in every eye, As I go by. Each plodding wayfarer looks up to gaze, Blinded by rainbow haze, The stuff of happiness, No less, Which wraps me in its glad-hued folds Of peacock golds. Before my feet the dusty, rough-paved way Flushes beneath its gray. My steps fall ringed with light, So bright, It seems a myriad suns are strown About the town. Around me is the sound of steepled bells, And rich perfumed smells Hang like a wind-forgotten cloud, And shroud Me from close contact with the world. I dwell impearled.