THOU that in years to come shalt tread this Sacred Way, By Rheims to Vimy Ridge, to Belfort by Verdun, Through weeping veils or fann'd by breath of summer gay, Let lift thy heart, O man! in benediction. Halt, and let lift thy heart beside—no matter which— Hummock, or wooden cross, or bed of nettles where Once was a hearth,—dry well, or pervenche by the ditch— Choose as thou wilt—be sure a son of France lies there. —A child whose mother's hand even thus caressed his hair As the wind smoothes the grass (Pray soft, O passer-by!): Whose ear asleep her lip touch'd fluttering with a prayer, Whose lids asleep she conn'd with candle lifted high. Asleep, asleep—and now, in a huddle of bloody rags Asleep, dug in to rot and dung this eastering slope: Claimed—'was' and 'was to be'—by the tambours and the flags— Pity the schoolboy's dream, but more the mother's hope! 'Monsieur, they died for France. Pity not us, nor these, Equal for France the French, the wife's heart with the man's: Equal the horn of Roland high on the Pyrenees; Equal the lance of Joan in the gate of Orléans. 'Domrémy! Vaucouleurs!—thou Rachel, raise no dirge, Thou Rizpah, croon no name to the distaff, to the yarn. Maids again we ride by the Maid as she heads the surge Swinging the shield of Gaul 'cross Paris to the Marne!' Mount, O man, to the ridge, to the calvary facing Metz, Behold the looping river, the poplars along the plain. And afar on the ramp an angel: hear from the parapets Her bugle to these dead sounding 'Lorraine! Lorraine!' Orchards of France! Of these your fruit shall break again, Their blood, replenishing, make red the wine-vat's flow, Their spirit wind in the breeze benignant over the grain, Blessing the child that gleans in fields his elders sow. Thou that in years to come shalt tread this Sacred Way Thy lesson learnt, return to thy Ville Lumière; To the boulevard, to the Bois, to the restaurant, to the play, To the supper, the all-night-lit and flaming thoroughfare. But the bread thou dipp'st alone shall make no more a feast, Nor the wine thou sipp'st apart yield thee thine old content: The bread is the body broken; poured out for thee, O priest, This wine is the blood of man. Receive the sacrament. Yet muse, and 'neath the arc thy soul shall find her peace; Child of a day—for France, thy France, no more afraid— In thy wet eyes the street-lamps waver the fleurs-delys,— Hark! up the Avenue, the nightride of the Maid! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...RAIN MUSIC by JOSEPH SEAMON COTTER JR. THE SEARCH (1) by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL A CHARACTER by ALFRED TENNYSON TWELVE SONNETS: 5. GLAD SEASONS by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) PSALM 41. BEATUS QUI INTELLIGIT by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE |