What if the boulevards， at set of sun，

    Reddened， but not with sunset's kindly¹ glow？

    What if from quai and square the murmured woe²

    Swept heavenward， pleadingly？ The prize was won，

    A kingling made and Liberty undone³.

    No Emperor， this， like him awhile ago，

    But his Name's shadow； that one struck the blow

    Himself， and sighted the street-sweeping gun！

    This was a man of tortuous⁴ heart and brain，

    So warped⁵ he knew not his own point of view——

    The master of a dark， mysterious smile.

    And there he plotted， by the storied Seine

    And in the fairy gardens of St. Cloud，

    The Sphinx that puzzled Europe， for awhile.