Place De l'Étoile

HERE where the swerving motors weave and dart,
Here where this pompous arch yet breathes the spell
Of him who fought unwisely though so well,
One seems to see the city’s very heart:
Louvre’s ravishing array of ravished art,
The soaring column where the Bastile fell.
With Notre Dame between, and Sainte Chapelle,
And left, and like a purple stain, Montmartre.
One evening musing here above the Seine,
And wondering what was finished, what begun,
I wheeled to see the lights of sunset wane
Over the relics of Napoleon,
And saw — with rapt surprise — a monoplane
Swooping above the breakers of the sun.