Classic Poem

What treasure have we was not first a dream?
'Tis scarce a decade since we came with joy
To place upon this hill a sacred stone
As altar for the temple of a dream.
About it, heaped like laurels, were the hope,
Devotion, confidence and high intent
Of those who for that moment of rejoicing
Had paid the price of long and patient years.
Here stood our time's first warrior, gentle Foch,
Simple, erect, devout, magnanimous,
Who would not purchase glory for himself
By piling havoc upon carnage, when
The resolute foe gave sudden sign of yielding.
Laden with civic honors, hither he came
To consecrate our dream: not to some trivial good,
Not to some selfish gain, but to Humanity, —
Since all may find the lodestone Happiness
By any tributary path of Art.
He brought us salutation from the sages
Whose great tradition by the storied Seine
So long has held the primacy of mind.
How can we call him dead! You of that hour,
Comrades of our ambition, here no more,
You whom we miss from this our festival,
Greet him in heaven for us and you, and tell him
We have not lost the memory of that day,
We have not lost the ardor of our dream!