Is it the Bois?

Ma foi!

Comme elle est chic, my Paris, my grisette!

Yet may I not forget

38

38

That London still remains the missus

Of this Narcissus.

No, no! ’tis not the Seine!

It is the artificial mere

That permeates St. James’s Park.

The air is bosom-shaped and clear;

And, Himmel! do I hear the lark,

The good old Shelley-Wordsworth lark?

Even now, I prithee,

Hark

Him hammer

On Heaven’s harmonious stithy,

Dew-drunken––like my grammar!

And O the trees!

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