A Sonnet on the Eiffel Tower

        Oh, lonely tower! Lord of Paris fair!
        Foreboding hulk, whose empty iron-frame
        Is filled with beauty, though its bones are bare;
        And ugly, yet deserving of its fame.
        You are a poet! When you lend your view
        To those street-wand'ring souls who climb your stair;
        Who see their daily world forever new,
        And breathe at last the height-impassioned air!
        You know a poet's beauty is not found
        In his own form, but by that structured art,
        Designed to lift the people from the ground,
        Yet cursed to stand, with distant gaze, apart.


          You have a poet's vantage of retreat;
          But, poet-like, you cannot walk the street.