Classic Poem

To-day my quest of beauty lies
By rough-hewn ways of ancient France,
Mounting where broken castles rise
Out of lost dreams of love and lance—
The solid wreckage of Romance.
To follow dreams what foot can be
Too weary! My fatigue defies
The cobble-stones of Brittany.

What echoes pierce the silent hours!
What visions throng the darkest night:
The bowstrings' dirge from crowded towers;
The shining troopers' clattering flight
To noisy battle; women's fright
Hearing the clash they cannot see.
How loud that folly speaks to ours
From cobble-stones of Brittany!

At morn I heard beneath my sill
The dragging rhythm of clogs, intent
On toil or worship. Now the still
And narrow street of eaves o'er-bent
By strange and sudden drum is rent! …
Ah, 'tis the town-crier passing by—
Thank God! no call of war, to thrill
The cobble-stones of Brittany.

Where can one tread a holier place?
Have we forgot how debonaire
Once trod the flower of all our race
The streets of Brest and St. Nazaire,
When Justice raised her standard there?

March on in sacred memory,
O feet that nevermore shall pace
The cobble-stones of Brittany!