Paris at Dawn

From one of Hodges' scrapbooks, with the inscription "after years of World wandering I paste this in my book.  WCH.  1923."  The author of this poem is unknown.

Paris at Dawn

Paris at dawn; Egypt beneath the stars;

And spring in Tuscany!

Where, through ruined temples of old avatars,

The young moon peers,

White with the silver of forgotten tears;

Still, down the years,

New Aprils move eternally,

In rhapsodies of almond bloom.

And poets loved this beauty, too,

Who walked the secret way they knew.

Down to a shadowy tomb.

And other splendors--on the sea,

Set like a jewel--Sicily,

Crown with the light of Etna.  On her breast,

Her ruins like a decoration, rest.

Marbles of Greece, that knew immortal hours;

Gardens of far Japan, steeped in a wine of flowers;

Faint temple bells, the nightingale,

And palace, mosque, and minaret;

The burning stars upon a desert trail--

An ancient symbol--lest our hearts forget.

After all splendors--if the South--

My South, still knows

And gives some word of beauty for a sign;

The waxen marvel of camellias, white and rose;

A wide-winged heron's cloudy flight;

A thrush's mouth,

Brimming with starry music, through a night

Where pine-tree shadows stir,

And lily-troubled waters shine--

I shall return!  Ah, not to call it lovelier--

This land--than all the rest

My pilgrim feet have pressed,

But only that these things are mine--are wholly mine!