THE STADIUM, PLATTSBURG
I hear the mighty song of singing men
Crashing among the pine-trees through the night,
And thund'ring, trumpet-wise, down every glen,
A song to France, whose soul is bleeding white.
But hark!—out rings a deeper, stronger cry.
A Nation, which has newly learned to give,
Is singing as its sons go forth to die,
Because, God knows, they're going forth—to live!
* * * * * *
O little Maid of France, who rests in Heaven,
Crowned with the Lilies Three (and Lilies Seven),
Send us the clear-eyed Faith that came to thee,
Praying beneath the pines, in Domremy.