And a singing maiden, pitched her purple tents

In Rome, leaned with a mother’s fears

In Bethlehem to nurse a son of God upon her breast

And learned the tender loneliness of tears,

Awhile had hid in Europe, sad

In the shadow of magnificence,

Brooding, finding no rest,

And then of a sudden she had run forth from her hiding-place,

Rejoicing, desperate, intense

Against her enemy, a rod

Of fire in her hand, her tresses crowned

With liberty, her purpose bold and bound

That every son should be a son of God.

And then she wept for France.... But once more clad

In stars, she beckons to America, the land

Of hope. Behold her stand

With her bright finger scorning armaments

And on her lips the unconquerable common sense

Of love calling the world to challenge and confound

The empty idols of her enemy!

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