Iii

Look not for spreading boughs On the riven forest tree. Look down where deep in blood and mire Black thunder plants his feet and ploughs The soil for ruin: that is France: Still thrilling like a lyre, Amazed to shivering discord from a fall Sudden as that the lurid hosts recall Who met in heaven the irreparable mischance. O that is France! The brilliant eyes to kindle bliss, The shrewd quick lips to laugh and kiss, Breasts that a sighing world inspire, And laughter-dimpled countenance Where soul and senses caught desire!