Explore "France" by Various on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Because for once the sword broke in her hand, / The words she spoke seemed perished for a space; / All wrong was brazen, and in every land / The tyrants walked abroad with naked face.
The waters turned to blood, as rose the Star / Of evil fate denying all release. / The rulers smote the feeble crying "War!" / The usurers robbed the naked crying "Peace!"
And her own feet were caught in nets of gold, / And her own soul profaned by sects that squirm, / And little men climbed her high seats and sold / Her honour to the vulture and the worm.
And she seemed broken and they thought her dead, / The Over-Men, so brave against the weak. / Has your last word of sophistry been said, / O cult of slaves? Then it is hers to speak.
Clear the slow mists from her half-darkened eyes, / As slow mists parted over Valmy fell, / And once again her hands in high surprise / Take hold upon the battlements of Hell.
CECIL CHESTERTON