The "Closerie" or "La Rotonde," where smoking, under lamplit trees,
Sit Art's enamored devotees, chatting across their brune and blonde....
Make one of them and come to know sweet Paris—not as many do,
Seeing but the folly of the few, the froth, the tinsel, and the show—
But taking some white proffered hand that from Earth's barren every day
Can lead you by the shortest way into Love's florid fairyland.
And that divine enchanted life that lurks under Life's common guise—
That city of romance that lies within the City's toil and strife—
Shall, knocking, open to your hands, for Love is all its golden key,
And one's name murmured tenderly the only magic it demands.
And when all else is gray and void in the vast gulf of memory,
Green islands of delight shall be all blessed moments so enjoyed:
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