Brooding on her deep fall, the many strings Which formed her nature set a thought on Kings, As aids that might the low-laid cripple lift; And one among them hummed devoutly leal, While passed the sighing breeze along her breast. Of Kings by the festive vanquishers rammed down Her gorge since fell the Chief, she knew their crown; Upon her through long seasons was its grasp, For neither soul’s nor body’s weal; As much bestows the robber wasp, That in the hanging apple makes a meal, And carves a face of abscess where was fruit Ripe ruddy. They would blot Her radiant leap above the slopes acute, Of summit to celestial; impute The wanton’s aim to her divinest shot; Bid her walk History backward over gaps; Abhor the day of Phrygian caps; Abjure her guerdon, execrate herself; The Hapsburg, Hohenzollern, Guelph, Admire repentant; reverently prostrate Her person unto the belly-god; of whom Is inward plenty and external bloom; Enough of pomp and state And carnival to quench The breast’s desires of an intemperate wench, The head’s ideas beyond legitimate. She flung them: she was France: nor with far frown Her lover from the embrace of her refrained: But in her voice an interwoven wire, The exultation of her gross renown, Struck deafness at her heavens, and they waned Over a look ill-gifted to aspire. Wherefore, as an abandonment, irate, The intemperate summoned up her trumpet days, Her treasure-galleon’s wondrous freight. The cannon-name she sang and shrieked; transferred Her soul’s allegiance; o’er the Tyrant slurred, Tranced with the zeal of her first fawning gaze, To clasp his trophy flags and hail him Saint. V She hailed him Saint: And her Jeanne unsainted, foully sung! The virgin who conceived a France when funeral glooms Across a land aquake with sharp disseverance hung: Conceived, and under stress of battle brought her forth; Crowned her in purification of feud and foeman’s taint; Taught her to feel her blood her being, know her worth, Have joy of unity: the Jeanne bescreeched, bescoffed, Who flamed to ashes, flew up wreaths of faggot fumes; Through centuries a star in vapour-folds aloft. For her people to hail her Saint, Were no lifting of her, Earth’s gem, Earth’s chosen, Earth’s throb on divine: In the ranks of the starred she is one, While man has thought on our line: No lifting of her, but for them, Breath of the mountain, beam of the sun Through mist, out of swamp-fires’ lures release, Youth on the forehead, the rough right way Seen to be footed: for them the heart’s peace, By the mind’s war won for a permanent miracle day.