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 Where is hope, and promise where, in all these things, Shocks of strength with strength, and jar of hurtling kings? Who of all men, who will show us any good? Shall these lightnings of blind battles give men light? Where is freedom? who will bring us in her sight, That have hardly seen her footprint where she stood?

Who is this that rises red with wounds and splendid, All her breast and brow made beautiful with scars, Burning bare as naked daylight, undefended, In her hands for spoils her splintered prison-bars, In her eyes the light and fire of long pain ended, In her lips a song as of the morning stars?

O torn out of thy trance, O deathless, O my France, O many-wounded mother, O redeemed to reign! O rarely sweet and bitter The bright brief tears that glitter On thine unclosing eyelids, proud of their own pain; The beautiful brief tears That wash the stains of years