Here you will find the Poem A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet VII of poet Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Ah, Paris, Paris! What an echo rings Still in those syllables of vain delight! What voice of what dead pleasures on what wings Of Maenad laughters pulsing through the night! How bravely her streets smile on me! How bright Her shops, her houses, fair sepulchral things, Stored with the sins of men forgotten quite, The loves of mountebanks, the lusts of kings! What message has she to me on this day Of my new life? Shall I, a pilgrim wan, Sit at her board and revel at her play, As in the days of old? Nay, this is done. It cannot be; and yet I love her well With her broad roads and pleasant paths to Hell.
