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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet XIX
Work rating: Low

Alas, that words like these should be but folly!
 Behold, the Boulevard mocks, and I mock too.
 Let us away and purge our melancholy
 With the last laughter at the Ambigu!
 Here all is real. Here glory`s self is true
 Through each regime to its own mission holy
 Of plying still the world with something new
 To cure its ache, or nobly souled or lowly.
 One title Paris holds above the rest
 Untouched by time or fortune`s change or frown,
 One temple of high fame, where she sits dressed
 In youth eternal, and mirth`s myrtle crown,
 And where she writes, each night, with deathless hands,
 ``To all the glories--of the stage--of France.``
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