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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - The Idler’s Calendar. Twelve Sonnets For The Months. March
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A WEEK AT PARIS

 When loud March from the East begins to blow,
 And earth and heaven are black, then off we hie
 By the night train to Paris, where we know
 Three windows set to the meridian sky,
 A third floor in the Rue de Rivoli.
 There we will stop and see the fair world move
 For our sole pleasure past us, you and I,
 And make pretence we are once more in love.

 We need not fret at loss of pence or time,
 Though Father Bignon`s smiles are paid in gold.
 This life in idleness is more sublime
 Than all our toil and all our wealth twice told.
 We need not fret. To--night for us shall Faure,
 Sara, Dupuis, or L`heritier unfold
 New stores of mirth and music, and once more
 We two shall sup, and at the Maison d`or.
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