And walked through France at will. For that loud boast
What have you got to show?
A bomb that chipped a tower of Nôtre Dame,
Leaving its mark like trippers' knives that scar
The haunts of beauty—that's the best réclame
You have achieved so far.
Paris, that through her humbled Triumph-Arch
Was doomed to see you tread your fathers' tracks—
Paris, your goal, now lies a six days' march
Behind your homing backs.