And so I am strong to love this noble France, This poet of the nations, who dreams on And wails on (while the household goes to wreck) For ever, after some ideal good,— Some equal poise of sex, some unvowed love Inviolate, some spontaneous brotherhood, Some wealth, that leaves none poor and finds none tired, Some freedom of the many, that respects The wisdom of the few. Heroic dreams! Sublime, to dream so; natural, to wake: And sad, to use such lofty scaffoldings, Erected for the building of a church, To build instead, a brothel ... or a prison— May God save France! However she have sighed Her great soul up into a great man’s face, To flush his temples out so gloriously That few dare carp at Cæsar for being bald, What then?—this Cæsar represents, not reigns, And is no despot, though twice absolute; This Head has all the people for a heart; This purple’s lined with the democracy,— Now let him see to it! for a rent within Must leave irreparable rags without. A serious riddle: find such anywhere Except in France; and when it’s found in France, Be sure to read it rightly. So, I mused Up and down, up and down, the terraced streets, The glittering boulevards, the white colonnades Of fair fantastic Paris who wears boughs Like plumes, as if man made them,—tossing up Her fountains in the sunshine from the squares, As dice i’ the game of beauty, sure to win; Or as she blew the down-balls of her dreams, And only waited for their falling back, To breathe up more, and count her festive hours.