| George Herbert Clarke, ed. (1873–1953). A Treasury of War Poetry. 1917. |
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| 20. The Soul of Jeanne d’Arc |
| | | By Theodosia Garrison |
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| She came not into the Presence as a martyred saint might come, | |
| Crowned, white-robed and adoring, with very reverence dumb,— | |
| She stood as a straight young soldier, confident, gallant, strong, | |
| Who asks a boon of hit captain in the sudden hush of the drum. | |
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| She said: “Now have I stayed too long in this my place of bliss, | 5 |
| With these glad dead that, comforted, forget what sorrow is | |
| Upon that world whose stony stairs they climbed to come to this. | |
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| “But lo, a cry hath torn the peace wherein so long I stayed, | |
| Like a trumpet’s call at Heaven’s wall from a herald unafraid,— | |
| A million voices in one cry, ‘Where is the Maid, the Maid?’ | 10 |
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| “I had forgot from too much joy that olden task of mine, | |
| But I have heard a certain word shatter the chant divine, | |
| Have watched a banner glow and grow before mine eyes for sign. | |
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| “I would return to that my land flung in the teeth of war, | |
| I would cast down my robe and crown that pleasure me no more, | 15 |
| And don the armor that I knew, the valiant sword I bore. | |
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| “And angels militant shall fling the gates of Heaven wide, | |
| And souls new-dead whose lives were shed like leaves on war’s red tide | |
| Shall cross their swords above our heads and cheer us as we ride. | |
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| “For with me goes that soldier saint, Saint Michael of the sword, | 20 |
| And I shall ride on his right side, a page beside his lord, | |
| And men shall follow like swift blades to reap a sure reward. | |
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| “Grant that I answer this my call, yea, though the end may be | |
| The naked shame, the biting flame, the last, long agony; | |
| I would go singing down that road where fagots wait for me. | 25 |
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| “Mine be the fire about my feet, the smoke above my head; | |
| So might I glow, a torch to show the path my heroes tread; | |
| My Captain! Oh, my Captain, let me go back!” she said. | |
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