Joan of Arc
It is for me to dare, whilst others dream.
Pity, my God, on all bewildered fools
Who must affront grave order, steadfast rules
Mellowed by centuries! How vain and crude
Will seem my tossing torches, in this town
Whose carven saints with quiet eyes gaze down
Into the sliding river. Wise friends above,
Had you but taught Godís nobler name is Love.
What if the pity in my heart has wrung
Silence to speech, the semblance of a tongue
Given to meadowsweet, to brook and tree?
What matter? Many faces lift to me
Their ancient loss and evil. Have I choice,
Save to stand firm, and cry, "Thus speaks the Voice"?
Some love me, some will mock . . . for I am young . . .
I think that they will doom me at the last.
All but the scent of grasses will glide past,
All but the quiver in my tree will cease . . .
God send, I flung the starved some shred of peace.