Poetry Archives

The city’s all a-shining
 Beneath a fickle sun,
A gay young wind’s a-blowing,
 The little shower is done.
But the rain-drops still are clinging
 And falling one by one—
Oh it’s Paris, it’s Paris,
 And spring-time has begun.

I know the Bois is twinkling
 In a sort of hazy sheen,
And down the Champs the gray old arch
 Stands cold and still between.
But the walk is flecked with sunlight
 Where the great acacias lean,
Oh it’s Paris, it’s Paris,
 And the leaves are growing green.

The sun’s gone in, the sparkle’s dead,
 There falls a dash of rain,
But who would care when such an air
 Comes blowing up the Seine?
And still Ninette sits sewing
 Beside her window-pane,
When it’s Paris, it’s Paris,
 And spring-time’s come again.