In the cool of shallow brooks—and all the while
Peace basks asleep, she dreams of some sad land
Leagues over sea, where youth is mown as grass.
TO FRANCE
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