Sainte Jeanne went harvesting in France, But ah! what found she there? The little streams were running red, And the torn fields were bare; And all about the ruined towers Where once her king was crowned, The hurtling ploughs of war and death Had scored the desolate ground. Sainte Jeanne turned to the hearts of men, That harvest might not fail; Her sword was girt upon her thigh, Her dress was silvern mail; And all the war-worn ranks were glad To feel her presence shine; Her smile was like the mellow sun Along that weary line. She gave her silence to their lips, Her visions to their eyes, And the quick glory of her sword She lent to their emprise; The shadow of her gentle hand Touched Belgium's burning cross, And set the seal of power and praise On agony and loss. Sainte Jeanne went harvesting in France, And oh! what found she there? The brave seed of her scattering In fruitage everywhere; And where her strong and tender heart Was broken in the flame, She found the very heart of France Had flowered to her name. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE JAIN BIRD HOSPITAL IN DELHI by WILLIAM MEREDITH THE QUALITY OF COURAGE by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET JOURNEY TO A KNOWN PLACE by HAYDEN CARRUTH DRUMS AND BRASS by DONALD (GRADY) DAVIDSON DOWN THE BROOK by ROBERT FROST ABOVE HALF MOON by JAMES GALVIN |