The hunching imp of Notre Dame,
Sick of his gazing and his search,
Was loosened by the schism in the Church,
And forsook its fortress calm.
Grimacing, twitching, while his claws unbend,
Cramped and stiff as the encrusted sages,
He scrambles past the Gothic vision’s end,
And scampers down the edifice of ages.
What will replace its massive peace,
Once novelty and pungent odors pass?
Will organ-grinders and the clamoring streets
Replace the vault reverberant at Mass?
Wet sidewalks where the streetlights burn
Lure the sprite with shining visions seven,
Just as the spires that cramped his every turn,
Seen from the street, reveal the way to Heaven.