Rain washed streets in early evening
Where lovers stroll, and old men sit
At a pavement a café in the shade
Of a red canopy and dream,
Lost in their distant memories.
Paris, that eternal city,
At the going down of the day,
Where spring, about to retire
With its cold days and bright sunshine,
Bows to the approaching summer.
Where people begin to shrug off
Their winter blues and overcoats
And take a lighter, gentler step.
Not even the noise of traffic
Breaks into such tranquillity.