Rudolphe Louis Nègroz
Mother! toward you my gratitude now goes
As to a goddess of some ancient fane,
Worshipped for fruitful blessings, incense rose,
While the stone altar held the dove just slain
In simple, penitential sacrifice,
And the great congregation, humbled, bowed,
Acknowledged thus the wondrous gifts whose price
They could not pay but in surrender proud
To gratitude's humility.—But you
Claim nothing slain in your cult, except
What I would less than value—all the true,
Enduring things in me have upward leapt,
Striving to do your honour. So do I
In humble pride my voice lift heaven-high.
France, Sept., 1917.
119
