TO FRANCE
Sweet France, we greet thee with our cheers, our tears,Our tardy swords! O sternly, wanly fairIn that red martyr-aureole thou dost wear!Even for the sake of our bright pioneers,Chapman, and Seeger, and such dear dead peersOf thy dead sons, joyous and swift to dareAll fiery danger of the earth and air,Forgive us, France, our hesitating years!Quenchless as thine own spirit is our trustThat thou shalt spring resurgent, like the bravePure plume of Bayard, from the blood and dustOf this grim combat-to-the-utterance,Fresh as the foambow of the charging wave,O plume of Europe, proud and delicate France!
Sweet France, we greet thee with our cheers, our tears,Our tardy swords! O sternly, wanly fairIn that red martyr-aureole thou dost wear!Even for the sake of our bright pioneers,Chapman, and Seeger, and such dear dead peersOf thy dead sons, joyous and swift to dareAll fiery danger of the earth and air,Forgive us, France, our hesitating years!Quenchless as thine own spirit is our trustThat thou shalt spring resurgent, like the bravePure plume of Bayard, from the blood and dustOf this grim combat-to-the-utterance,Fresh as the foambow of the charging wave,O plume of Europe, proud and delicate France!
Sweet France, we greet thee with our cheers, our tears,Our tardy swords! O sternly, wanly fairIn that red martyr-aureole thou dost wear!Even for the sake of our bright pioneers,Chapman, and Seeger, and such dear dead peersOf thy dead sons, joyous and swift to dareAll fiery danger of the earth and air,Forgive us, France, our hesitating years!
Sweet France, we greet thee with our cheers, our tears,
Our tardy swords! O sternly, wanly fair
In that red martyr-aureole thou dost wear!
Even for the sake of our bright pioneers,
Chapman, and Seeger, and such dear dead peers
Of thy dead sons, joyous and swift to dare
All fiery danger of the earth and air,
Forgive us, France, our hesitating years!
Quenchless as thine own spirit is our trustThat thou shalt spring resurgent, like the bravePure plume of Bayard, from the blood and dustOf this grim combat-to-the-utterance,Fresh as the foambow of the charging wave,O plume of Europe, proud and delicate France!
Quenchless as thine own spirit is our trust
That thou shalt spring resurgent, like the brave
Pure plume of Bayard, from the blood and dust
Of this grim combat-to-the-utterance,
Fresh as the foambow of the charging wave,
O plume of Europe, proud and delicate France!