How many of those youths who consecrate Their lives to art, and worship at her shrine, And sacrifice their early hours and late In serving her exacting whims divine Have gathered in old Chelsea's shaded peace, Whose faint, elusive charm, and gentle airs, Bring inspiration fresh, and sweet release From Trouble's haunting shapes and goblin cares? O! tree-embowered hamlet, whose demesne Sleeps in the arms of London quietly, Whose sparrow-haunted roads, and squares serene, From all the stress of life seem ever free— O! are you more than just a passing dream Beside the city's slim and lovely stream? Luxeuil-les-Bains, 1917.