Poems (Cromwell)/To France
TO FRANCE
Oh, still I dream of thee, my France! The sun Irradiates thy meadows. Stalks of grain And aureate beams infusing them are one. There is a harmony that links thy plain To quiet skies; that weaves a slender chain Of living vine with wavering light. Where cease Thy level spaces, hills dim clouds detain; And in thy south, where seasons find increase, The sheaves, like kneeling women, praise thy peace.
Unwilling and reluctant are my dreams, To recognize transforming destinies. I dream of thee, my France; of mellow beams That ripen happiness; of ample skies That frame thy far perspectives. Meadows rise To them by poplar spans. Upon thy ways I see the cross. The gentle Saviour dies With arms athwart the cloud. As heavenly rays Touch earth, His love a sense of light conveys.
Is happiness no more than disguise, A sheathing dream reality must wear?If so, away with joyful mockeries!My France, in desolation thou art fair. Thy trampled poppies and thy fields laid bare Express a beauty that prosperity Concealed. Thy joys are fallen; fate would spare No ornament of peace. But I can see The strange unfolding of thy destiny.
I love thee, and would know thee as indeed Thou art. No scythe, a sword embraces wheat, The poplars on thy margin seem to heed No more the wind what made their stems throb sweet As lyre strings. The stars alone entreat. Thy vine is severed and thy grape is blood; Thy sheaves an souls. Thy rising meadows meet The sky like surging waves of a dark flood, And shadow doses every quickening bud.
My France, my France, in darkness I begin To know the light that only faith can shed Upon thy ways. As joy and beauty win Through death, so thou shalt win. Art thou not fed, Though fields are bare, with spiritual bread?The star-strewn shadow crowns and dignifies Thy young, submissive God of the bowed head. How newly does thy sorrow harmonize With His, whose loving arms enfold the skies!