All the lights of the sweet heaven that sing together; All the years of the green earth that bare man free; Rays and lightnings of the fierce or tender weather, Heights and lowlands, wastes and headlands of the sea, Dawns and sunsets, hours that hold the world in tether, Be our witnesses and seals of things to be. Lo the mother, the Republic universal, Hands that hold time fast, hands feeding men with might, Lips that sing the song of the earth, that make rehearsal Of all seasons, and the sway of day with night, Eyes that see as from a mountain the dispersal, The huge ruin of things evil, and the flight; Large exulting limbs, and bosom godlike moulded Where the man-child hangs, and womb wherein he lay; Very life that could it die would leave the soul dead, Face whereat all fears and forces flee away, Breath that moves the world as winds a flower-bell folded, Feet that trampling the gross darkness beat out day. In the hour of pain and pity, Sore spent, a wounded city, Her foster-child seeks to her, stately where she stands; In the utter hour of woes, Wind-shaken, blind with blows, Paris lays hold upon her, grasps her with child's hands; Face kindles face with fire, Hearts take and give desire, Strange joy breaks red as tempest on tormented lands. Day to day, man to man, Plights love republican, And faith and memory burn with passion toward each other; Hope, with fresh heavens to track, Looks for a breath's space back, Where the divine past years reach hands to this their brother; And souls of men whose death Was light to her and breath Send word of love yet living to the living mother. They call her, and she hears; O France, thy marvellous years, The years of the strong travail, the triumphant time, Days terrible with love, Red-shod with flames thereof, Call to this hour that breaks in pieces crown and crime; The hour with feet to spurn, Hands to crush, fires to burn The state whereto no latter foot of man shall climb. Yea, come what grief, now may By ruinous night or day, One grief there cannot, one the first and last grief, shame. Come force to break thee and bow Down, shame can come not now, Nor, though hands wound thee, tongues make mockery of thy name: Come swords and scar thy brow, No brand there burns it now, No spot but of thy blood marks thy white-fronted fame. Now, though the mad blind morrow With shafts of iron sorrow Should split thine heart, and whelm thine head with sanguine waves;