On a clear day in Paris, walking where
A century ago red riot leapt
Torrent-like down the streets, I was aware
How, far on the horizon rim, there crept
Pale, ominous clouds; and listening I heard
Dim, unmistakable, a muttered word:

The thunder's prelude and the tempest's threat.
The hour was bright with sun and jest and song
In the blithe Capital, and yet, and yet,
The place was Paris and Men's woes are long;
Sudden, for me, beneath that tranquil sky,
The tragic tumbrils, hark! go rumbling by!