I
First, London, for its myriads; for its height,Manhattan heaped in towering stalagmite;But Paris for the smoothness of the pathsThat lead the heart unto the heart’s delight…
Fair loiterer on the threshold of those daysWhen there’s no lovelier prize the world displaysThan, having beauty and your twenty years,You have the means to conquer and the ways,
And coming where the crossroads separateAnd down each vista glories and wonders wait,Crowning each path with pinnacles so fairYou know not which to choose, and hesitate—
Oh, go to Paris… In the midday gloomOf some old quarter take a little roomThat looks off over Paris and its towersFrom Saint Gervais round to the Emperor’s Tomb,—
So high that you can hear a mating doveCroon down the chimney from the roof above,See Notre Dame and know how sweet it isTo wake between Our Lady and our love.
And have a little balcony to bringFair plants to fill with verdure and blossoming,That sparrows seek, to feed from pretty hands,And swallows circle over in the Spring.
There of an evening you shall sit at easeIn the sweet month of flowering chestnut-trees,There with your little darling in your arms,Your pretty dark-eyed Manon or Louise.
And looking out over the domes and towersThat chime the fleeting quarters and the hours,While the bright clouds banked eastward back of themBlush in the sunset, pink as hawthorn flowers,
You cannot fail to think, as I have done,Some of life’s ends attained, so you be oneWho measures life’s attainment by the hoursThat Joy has rescued from oblivion.