though others were more elaborate, more profound, or more moving:—
ROUEN, PLACE DE LA PUCELLE (1851)
Here blooms the legend, fed by Time and Chance,
Fresh as the morning, though with centuries old;
The whitest lily in the shield of France,
With heart of virgin gold.
Along this square she moved, sweet Joan of Arc,
With face more pallid than a daylit star,
Half-seen, half-doubted,—while before her dark
Stretched the array of war.
Swift passed the battle-smoke of lying breath
From off her path, as if a wind had blown,
Showing no faithless King,—but righteous Death
On the low wooden throne.
He would reward her: she who meekly wore
Alike the gilded mail, the peasant gown,
As meekly now received one honor more,
The formless fiery crown.
A white dove trembled up the heated air,
And in the opening zenith found its goal;
Soft as a downward feather dropped a prayer
For each repentant soul.
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