Bois de Boulogne

I wrote this song in Paris, on a college vacation. 
It was never sung, except by me. It needs music.


Here the children play, their cries are keen
enough to leave the grasses newly mown.
A ring of trees defends their bright demesne.
And oh my soul, this joyous green
	is not the place for one to walk alone.

Here a rowboat passes.  From the two
it holds comes just the murmuring waves’ soft tone.
The lake says sun will reign the summer through.
And oh my soul, this joyour blue
	is not the place for one to walk alone.

Here the elms are soft and tall and old.
Their quiet arches taught the gothic stone.
The branches sift the sun they cannot hold.
And oh my soul this joyous gold
	is not the place for one to walk alone.
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