I

THE wheels are silent, the cords are slack, The terrible faces are surging back. France, they too love thee! bid that keep plain;

The wrath and carnage I stayed afar Colleagues of my white conscience are: Accept my slayers, accept me slain!

Shed for days, in its olden guise The quiet delicate snake-skin lies To cheat a boy on his woodland stroll:

What if he crush it? Others see Beauty’s miracle under a tree Supple in mail, and adroit, and whole;

The shaper rid of a shape, and thence (Growth of an outgrown excellence), Mounted with infinite might and speed,

Freed like a soul to the heaven it dreamed; Over life that was, and death that seemed A victory and a revenge indeed!

As the serpent moves to the open spring, The while a mock, a delusive thing Sole in sight of the crowd may be,

So ye, my martyrs, arise, advance! For what is left at the feet of France It is our failure, it is not we.