Enough, dear Paris! We have laughed together,
'Tis time that we should part, lest tears should come.
I must fare on from winter and rough weather
And the dark tempests chained within Time's womb.
Southwards I go. Each footstep marks the tomb
Of a dead pleasure. Melun, Fontainebleau,--
How shall I name them with the ghosts that roam
In their deserted streets of long ago?
I will not stop to weep. Before me lie
Lands larger in their purpose, and with dreams
Peopled more purely; and to these I fly
For ever from life's idler stratagems.
France! thy white hand I kiss in suppliant guise,
Too sad to love thee, and alas! too wise.