Page:Poems for Workers - ed. Manuel Gomez (1925).djvu/41

 To France

By

Mother of revolutions, stern and sweet,

Thou of the red Commune's heroic days;

Unsheathe thy sword, let thy pent lightning blaze

Until these new bastilesbastilles [sic] fall at thy feet.

Once more thy sons march down the ancient street

Led by pale men from silent Pere la Chaise;

Once more La Carmagnole—La Marseillaise

Blend with the war drum's quick and angry beat.

Ah, France—our—France—must they again endure

The crown of thorns upon the cross of death?

Is morning here? Then speak that we may know!

The sky seems lighter but we are not sure.

Is morning here? The whole world holds its breath

To hear the crimson Gallic rooster crow.

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