Obeying plunged at Orleans in a field
Of spears and lived her dream and died in fire,
Thou, France, hast heard the voices and hast lived
The dream and known the meaning of the dream,
And read its riddle : IIow the soul of man
May to one greatest purpose make itself
A lens of clearness, how it loves the cup
Of deepest truth, and how its bitterest gall
Turns sweet to soul's surrender.
And you say : Take days for repetition, stretch your hands For mocked renewal of familiar things : The beaten path, the chair beside the window. The crowded street, the task, the accustomed sleep, And waking to the task, or many springs Of lifted cloud, blue water, flowering fields — The prison house grows close no less, the feast A place of memory sick for senses dulled Down to the dustj^ end where pitiful Time Grown weary cries Enough !
— Edgar Lee Masters.
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