Alas, our boys—let angels weep—our sons Who went to aid of thee, pure as the Virgin Mary some, our soldier sons in air, On earth, and underneath were tempted, caught By countess cunning, rich but fallen far; Entrapped, diseased by women, living hells, That move and search and laugh and win and damn! Indecencies of men—God save the race, That human virtue may not die at last!
O France, all this is not thy nobler heart, What love and honor thou hast ever shown; What triumph for thyself, for us and all! Thy virtue dieth not, nor truth, nor those Inspired of Heaven through the ages past, The now and evermore; these lofty hosts And we, who love aright, will see thy soul, All torn by vice and mocking devils, whole; Triumphant over foes without, within.
Thy Notre Dame, thy little hells, O France; The good and evil, working both—but God!
A master artist in the sun-kissed leaves Of a scarlet maple loved by me for years, First paints a verdant robe until appears The autumn time, then marvel great conceives. Through darkest night, high noon, and splendent eves His wondrous work goes on, unknown to fears, Although my maple has her unshed tears, Until her greatest glory he achieves.
Then yields she all her riches quite content; For man and bird and beast her life is spent; In turn to every tree hath prophesied, To mortal man hath plainly said, “The best Waits him who gives his all, then goes to rest; Thus life and even death are glorified.”
Again rare riches thou hast gently shown, And I drink sweetness from thy royal heart. Again I rise and claim the nobler part, And bless the friendship in thee made known. Full forty years, in public or alone, I’ve studied men, high heaven’s sovereign art And thee—thy virtue’s smiles, and whence they start, Adoring Truth’s sweet balm, which is thine own.
Let turmoils come and go; let fools foment Disaster dire, till many shall lament Their natal hour, their present lot and all. Thy friendship true, which grows from bud to bloom And fruit eternal, dissipates all gloom— Again I’ve entered love’s pure banquet hall.
The strikers call for more and more; For they sail a sea without a shore; Ah, yes, they’ll strike forever more!
Let merit go, it were a sin For any plan but a strike to win; And hence they strike forever more!