Paris is mournful with her mad songs.
These breezes, the high breezes and dry breezes,
These stillnesses between the breezes,
These purple clouds the sunset seizes:
These are for you, but underneath the trees is
Paris a-sighing with her shy breezes.
These days, these breezes and these nights,
These streets, this wine, these songs, these sighs;
Paris with all her myriad lights,
Paris so careless yet so wise: