This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1874 Excerpt: ...This purple's lined with the democracy, --Now let him see to it! for a rent within Must leave irreparable rags without. A serious riddle; find such anywhere Except in France; and when't is found in France, Be sure to read it rightly. So, I mused Up and down, up and down, the terraced streets, The glittering Boulevards, ...
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This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1874 Excerpt: ...This purple's lined with the democracy, --Now let him see to it! for a rent within Must leave irreparable rags without. A serious riddle; find such anywhere Except in France; and when't is found in France, Be sure to read it rightly. So, I mused Up and down, up and down, the terraced streets, The glittering Boulevards, the white colonades Of fair fantastic Paris who wears trees Like plumes, as if man made them, spire and tower As if they had grown by nature, tossing up Her fountains in the sunshine of the squares, As if in beauty's game she tossed the dice, Or blew the silver down-balls of her dreams To sow futurity with the seeds of thought And count the passage of her festive hours. The city swims in verdure, beautiful As Venice on the waters, the sea-swan. What bosky gardens dropped in close-walled courts As plums in ladies' laps, who start and laugh: What miles of streets that run on after trees, Still carrying all the necessary shops, Those open caskets with the jewels seen! And trade is art, and art's philosophy, In Paris. There's a silk, for instance, there, As worth an artist's study for the folds, As that bronze opposite! nay, the bronze has faults; Art's here too artful, --conscious as a maid Who leans to mark her shadow on the wall Until she lose a 'vantage in her step. Yet Art walks forward, and knows where to walk: The artists also are idealists, Too absolute for nature, logical To austerity in the application of The special theory: not a soul content To paint a crooked pollard and an ass, As the English will, because they find it so And like it somehow.--There the old Tuileries Is pulling its high cap down on its eyes, Confounded, conscience-stricken, and amazed By the apparition of a new fair face In those devouring mirrors. Through the grate W...
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