Page:The Book of the Homeless (New York, Charles Scribner's Sons, 1916).djvu/80

  Ne nous plains pas, cher hôte, en nous tendant la main. Car n'est-il pas pour toi un étranger divin Celui qui, le front haut et les yeux pleins de flamme, A quitté sa maison pour fuir un joug infâme Et dont le fier genou n'a pas voulu ployer Et qui, pauvre, exilé, sans pain et sans foyer, Sent monter, de son cœur à sa face pâlie. Ce même sang sacré que saigne la Patrie.

 

itter our fate, that may not bear away On the harsh winds and through the alien spray Sheaves of our fields and fruit from the warm wall, The rose that reddens at the morning's call, Nor aught of all wherewith the turning year Our doorway garlanded, from green to sere.… But since the ash is cold upon the hearth. And dumb the birds in garden and in garth. Since none shall come again, of all our loves, Back to this roof that crooned with nesting doves. Now let us bid farewell to all our dead. And that dear corner of earth where they are laid. And where in turn it had been good to lay Our kindred heads on the appointed day.

Weep not, O springs and fountains, that we go. And thou, dear earth, the earth our footsteps know, 