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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536560" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Idler’s Calendar. Twelve Sonnets For The Months. March</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536560" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">A WEEK AT PARIS</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536560" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">When loud March from the East begins to blow,<br>And earth and heaven are black, then off we hie<br>By the night train to Paris, where we know<br>Three windows set to the meridian sky,<br>A third floor in the Rue de Rivoli.<br>There we will stop and see the fair world move<br>For our sole pleasure past us, you and I,<br>And make pretence we are once more in love.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536560" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">We need not fret at loss of pence or time,<br>Though Father Bignon's smiles are paid in gold.<br>This life in idleness is more sublime<br>Than all our toil and all our wealth twice told.<br>We need not fret. To--night for us shall Faure,<br>Sara, Dupuis, or L'heritier unfold<br>New stores of mirth and music, and once more<br>We two shall sup, and at the Maison d'or.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Wilfrid+Scawen+Blunt">Wilfrid Scawen Blunt</a></strong></div>

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