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FRANCE,
The 18th Year of These States.
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1.A great year and place,
A harsh, discordant, natal scream rising, to touch the
mother's heart closer than any yet.
2.I walked the shores of my Eastern Sea,
Heard over the waves the little voice.
Saw the divine infant, where she woke, mournfully
wailing, amid the roar of cannon, curses, shouts,
crash of falling buildings.
Was not so sick from the blood in the gutters running
—nor from the single corpses, nor those in heaps,
nor those borne away in the tumbrils,
Was not so desperate at the battues of death—was
not so shocked at the repeated fusillades of the
guns.
3.Pale, silent, stern, what could I say ,to that long-
accrued retribution?
Could I wish humanity different?
Could I wish the people made of wood and stone?
Or that there be no justice in destiny or time?
