There are those who go to Europe who bring back to their native
land only the latest fashions of Paris with a little knowledge
of foreign profanity picked up from the cafes and boulevards.
They can tell nothing about the wonders of the Louvre; the
grandeur of Raphael's Madonnas; the beauty and charm of the
Mediterranean shores. Their souls perhaps have never been
touched by the grand sublimity of the Alps. What feasts they
have attended, taking away only the husks! Far away in some
foreign land they have spent years vainly seeking for pleasure
only to learn that:
"Pleasures are like poppies spread.
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed.
Or like the snowfall in the river
A moment white, then melts forever.
Or like the rainbow's lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm."
The first cool breeze blows away the froth of fashion, for it is
composed of delicate flowers that the first chill wind of
adversity causes to wilt and droop and lose their fragrance.
"Now the cool forenoon serenity of the ocean is no longer
profaned." They have followed the siren voices of this
bewildering region until they have arrived on some shoals that
hint of a coming winter, and emerge with duller plumes like
birds of passage, ready to flock to sunnier climes. They remind
one, too, of the gorgeous colored butterflies which flew about
all summer, at first things of beauty, dazzling the eye with
their brilliant colors; haunting the most fragrant flowers for
nectar, reveling in the sunshine the whole day long.
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