TO FRANCE
Oh, still I dream of thee, my France! The sun
Irradiates thy meadows. Stalks of grain
And aureate beams infusing them are one.
There is a harmony that links thy plain
To quiet skies; that weaves a slender chain
Of living vine with wavering light. Where cease
Thy level spaces, hills dim clouds detain;
And in thy south, where seasons find increase,
The sheaves, like kneeling women, praise thy peace.
Irradiates thy meadows. Stalks of grain
And aureate beams infusing them are one.
There is a harmony that links thy plain
To quiet skies; that weaves a slender chain
Of living vine with wavering light. Where cease
Thy level spaces, hills dim clouds detain;
And in thy south, where seasons find increase,
The sheaves, like kneeling women, praise thy peace.
Unwilling and reluctant are my dreams,
To recognize transforming destinies.
I dream of thee, my France; of mellow beams
That ripen happiness; of ample skies
That frame thy far perspectives. Meadows rise
To them by poplar spans. Upon thy ways
I see the cross. The gentle Saviour dies
With arms athwart the cloud. As heavenly rays
Touch earth, His love a sense of light conveys.
To recognize transforming destinies.
I dream of thee, my France; of mellow beams
That ripen happiness; of ample skies
That frame thy far perspectives. Meadows rise
To them by poplar spans. Upon thy ways
I see the cross. The gentle Saviour dies
With arms athwart the cloud. As heavenly rays
Touch earth, His love a sense of light conveys.
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