Little Poems in Prose

XVIII WILL YOU COME WITH ME? THERE is a superb country; a country of Cockaigne, they say, which I dream of visiting with an old friend. Singular country, drowned in the fogs of our northern marches, which one may call the east of the west, the China of Europe, so much does warm and capricious fancy there take the bit in its teeth; so much has it been patiently and obstinately made il- lustrious by its wise and delicate flora. A true country of Cockaigne, where all is beautiful, rich, quiet, straightforward. Where luxury takes pleasure in admiring itself in the mirror of good order; where life is easy and may be softly breathed; from which disorder, turbulence, and the unforeseen are shut out; where happiness is wedded to silence; where the food itself is at once poetical, rich, and ex- citing; where everything resembles you, dear angel. You know the feverish malady which takes possession of us in times of wretchedness and cold; this homesickness for unknown coun-