II
We rode through the forest of old Compiègne
At Christmas tide when the bare boles stood
Like jasper columns of richest grain;
And all the leaves of the ancient wood
Lay piled in sumptuous drifts between,
Crimson and purple and deep wine-red
Brocades and damasks of rarest sheen
Fit to drape over a princeling's bed.
—I thought how on many a sunlit morn
With plume and banner and shrilling horn,
When those noble trees were less gnarled and tall
Gay cavalcades had wound past each spot,
With Catherine, Francois and Mary the Scot
To the winter feasting in Compiègne hall.
At Christmas tide when the bare boles stood
Like jasper columns of richest grain;
And all the leaves of the ancient wood
Lay piled in sumptuous drifts between,
Crimson and purple and deep wine-red
Brocades and damasks of rarest sheen
Fit to drape over a princeling's bed.
—I thought how on many a sunlit morn
With plume and banner and shrilling horn,
When those noble trees were less gnarled and tall
Gay cavalcades had wound past each spot,
With Catherine, Francois and Mary the Scot
To the winter feasting in Compiègne hall.
III
We rode through the forest of Compiègne old
When the warm spring rains were seeping down
Through misty leafage, and never a bold
Violet peeped through the golden brown
Deep clustering mosses; although the brink
Of each clamoring stream and each hollow wet
With forget-me-nots, turquoise and coral-pink
Was in quaint and intricate pattern set.
—And I thought of Joan the Blessed Maid,
Riding on lissome and unafraid,
Though she knew, saint-warned, of her coming fate—
Riding on through a sun-flecked way
To her capture in that fatal fray
In the spring twilight near Compiègne gate.
When the warm spring rains were seeping down
Through misty leafage, and never a bold
Violet peeped through the golden brown
Deep clustering mosses; although the brink
Of each clamoring stream and each hollow wet
With forget-me-nots, turquoise and coral-pink
Was in quaint and intricate pattern set.
—And I thought of Joan the Blessed Maid,
Riding on lissome and unafraid,
Though she knew, saint-warned, of her coming fate—
Riding on through a sun-flecked way
To her capture in that fatal fray
In the spring twilight near Compiègne gate.
[ 71 ]
