George Herbert Clarke, ed. (1873–1953). A Treasury of War Poetry. 1917.
Theodosia Garrison
The Soul of Jeanne dArc
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.
With these glad dead that, comforted, forget what sorrow is
Upon that world whose stony stairs they climbed to come to this.
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?’
But I have heard a certain word shatter the chant divine,
Have watched a banner glow and grow before mine eyes for sign.
I would cast down my robe and crown that pleasure me no more,
And don the armor that I knew, the valiant sword I bore.
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.
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.
The naked shame, the biting flame, the last, long agony;
I would go singing down that road where fagots wait for me.
So might I glow, a torch to show the path my heroes tread;
My Captain! Oh, my Captain, let me go back!” she said.