Across her fields this later day
A blacker tyrant hacks his way;
The sons of France are forth to wage
The war that darkens every age—
Might against Right—and once again
God-sent maid leads fighting men.
This day they name her—LIBERTY . . .
God grant she'll win the victory!
Mother of Sons
YOUR hands are tired with their long day's labour,
Toil-worn hands that have worked with a will;
Must they know no rest till they lie forever
In the last firm clasp, so white and still?
Your dark-rimmed eyes are dim with weeping,
Their heavy lids are fain to close—
Must they know more sorrow ere the last mist rising
Heralds the hour of the long repose? . . .
Twilight is filling the valley hollows,
The dew is falling, the wind grows cold
But look, on the height, the rose of promise
With crimson petals and heart of gold!
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