And memory; let it be,—a poet’s heart
Can swell to a pair of nationalities,
However ill-lodged in a woman’s breast.
And so I am strong to love this noble France,
This poet of the nations, who dream on
And wails on (while the household goes to wreck)
For ever, after some ideal good,—
Some equal poise of sex, some unvowed love
Inviolate, some spontaneous brotherhood,
Some wealth, that leaves none poor and finds none tired,
Some freedom of the many, that respects
The wisdom of the few. Heroic dreams!
Sublime, to dream so; natural, to wake:
And sad, to use such lofty scaffoldings,
Erected for the building of a church,
To build instead, a brothel . . or a prison—
May God save France!
However she have sighed
Her great soul up into a great man’s face,
To flush his temples out so gloriously
That few dare carp at Cæsar for being bald,
What then?—this Cæsar represents, not reigns,
And is not despot, though twice absolute;
This Head has all the people for a heart;
This purple’s lined with the democracy,—
Now let him see to it! for a rent within
Must leave irreparable rags without.
A serious riddle: find such anywhere
