To France

Sweet France, we greet thee with our cheers, our tears, Our tardy swords! O sternly, wanly fair In that red martyr-aureole thou dost wear! Even for the sake of our bright pioneers, Chapman, and Seeger, and such dear dead peers Of thy dead sons, joyous and swift to dare All fiery danger of the earth and air, Forgive us, France, our hesitating years!

Quenchless as thine own spirit is our trust That thou shalt spring resurgent, like the brave Pure plume of Bayard, from the blood and dust Of this grim combat-to-the-utterance, Fresh as the foambow of the charging wave, O plume of Europe, proud and delicate France!