Joan of Arc

Her spirit is to France a living springFrom which to draw deep draughts of life. Today,—As when a peasant girl she led the wayVictorious to Rheims and crowned the King,—High and heroic thoughts about her cling,And sacrificial faiths as pure as they,Moving the land she loved, with gentle sway,To be, for love of her, a better thing!

Was she unhappy? No: her radiant youthBurned, like a meteor, on to swift eclipse;But where it passed, there lingers still a light.She waited, wistful, for the word of truthThat breathed in blessing from immortal lipsWhen earthly comfort failed, and all around was night.