WHERE orange lanterns light the gravel walk,
And rust the leaves of chestnut trees, belated
Diners in groups familiar congregated
Are mildly entertained by polished talk. Around blue ponds which falling chestnuts strow,
Jewels and feathers scintillate and flit;
Sometimes a red point through the night will glow,
When cigarettes are lit; And while the smoke of blonde tobacco curves,
And blends its scent with that of flowers that wither,
You hear a gipsy music wafting higher
Its sweet narcotic to caress the nerves.