Explore "Lepage's Joan of Arc" by Helen Gray Cone on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Once, it may be, the soft gray skies were dear, / The clouds above in crowds, like sheep below, / The bending of each kindly wrinkled tree; / Or blossoms at the birth-time of the year, / Or lambs unweaned, or water in still flow, / In whose brown glass a girl her face might see.
Such days are gone, and strange things come instead; / For she has looked on other faces white, / Pale bloom of fear, before war's whirlwind blown; / Has stooped, ah Heaven! in some low sheltering shed / To tend dark wounds, the leaping arrow's bite, / While the cold death that hovered seemed her own.