This is so brisk, so fine a day, So sunny and bare, withal so gay, That my memory turns to gallant things To the bleak bright sword that cuts and sings, To Jeanne d'Albret in her castle at Pau, Singing high and singing low -- Though her travail be hard and her pain be long Her son shall be born to his mother's song! I see her lying in the great state bed With the canopy dark above her head, Two glazed eyes and a rigid mouth That still sings canticles of the south, Whatever the pain she still must sing For out of cowards, cowards spring And the gifts that she has for her first son are This night-long song and the realm of Navarre. When the day is so bleak and wild and gay My memories turn to Jeanne d'Albret. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A FOREST HYMN by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THE JOURNEY ONWARDS by THOMAS MOORE MRS. HARRIS'S PETITION: TO EXCELLENCIES THE LORDS JUSTICES OF IRELAND by JONATHAN SWIFT COLONIAL SET by ALFRED GOLDSWORTHY BAILEY |