Page:Poems Cromwell.djvu/98

Is happiness no more than disguise,
A sheathing dream reality must wear?
If so, away with joyful mockeries!
My France, in desolation thou art fair.
Thy trampled poppies and thy fields laid bare
Express a beauty that prosperity
Concealed. Thy joys are fallen; fate would spare
No ornament of peace. But I can see
The strange unfolding of thy destiny.

I love thee, and would know thee as indeed
Thou art. No scythe, a sword embraces wheat,
The poplars on thy margin seem to heed
No more the wind what made their stems throb sweet
As lyre strings. The stars alone entreat.
Thy vine is severed and thy grape is blood;
Thy sheaves an souls. Thy rising meadows meet
The sky like surging waves of a dark flood,
And shadow doses every quickening bud.

My France, my France, in darkness I begin
To know the light that only faith can shed
Upon thy ways. As joy and beauty win
Through death, so thou shalt win. Art thou not fed,

[84]