Here you will find the Poem The Idlers Calendar. Twelve Sonnets For The Months. March of poet Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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.
