Pensive, from the high esplanade I stretch my hand, that of a God, toward the horizon's opening road in the moonlight 'neath my eyes displayed. I cadence still-expanding space and feel unclose the heaven's blue bowl, swelling the spirit of my race up to the measure of my soul. No. I'm alone on guard, and France that sleeps with unperturbed breath, beneath the moonlight's flood immense, has all the majesty of death. I think of gods that once were proud, of all the heroes buried deep, of how the lately-conquered sleep, of France in her funereal shroud. The god I was has perished now. Humbly I kneel and pray for all. Why does this peace upon me fall and this sweet hand caress my brow? Genius of France, consoling Sprite whose veil, transparent with the light of the month elect when buds are rife and quickening seeds are thrilled with life, shines with the lustrous hue of hope! -- and 'neath the morning's new romance a resurrected soul I ope to greet resuscitated France! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TEN YEARS OLD by LOUIS UNTERMEYER MEN WHO MARCH AWAY' (SONG OF THE SOLDIERS) by THOMAS HARDY AN EGYPTIAN PULLED GLASS BOTTLE IN THE SHAPE OF A FISH by MARIANNE MOORE THE PALACE OF ART by ALFRED TENNYSON THE SKY-GYPSY by WALTER BARDECK TWELVE SONNETS: 8 by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) INCOGNITA IN THE TEMPLE OF THESEUS by SEYMOUR GREEN WHEELER BENJAMIN |