He who walks through the meadows of Champagne
    At noon in Fall, when leaves like gold appear,
      Sees it draw near
    Like some great mountain set upon the plain,
    From radiant dawn until the close of day,
      Nearer it grows
      To him who goes
    Across the country.  When tall towers lay
      Their shadowy pall
      Upon his way,
      He enters, where
    The solid stone is hollowed deep by all
    Its centuries of beauty and of prayer.

    Ancient French temple! thou whose hundred Kings
    Watch over thee, emblazoned on thy walls,
    Tell me, within thy memory-hallowed halls
    What chant of triumph, or what war-song rings? 
    Thou hast known Clovis and his Frankish train,
    Whose mighty hand Saint Remy’s hand did keep
    And in thy spacious vault perhaps may sleep
    An echo of the voice of Charlemagne. 
    For God thou hast known fear, when from His side
    Men wandered, seeking alien shrines and new,
    But still the sky was bountiful and blue
    And thou wast crowned with France’s love and pride. 
    Sacred thou art, from pinnacle to base;
    And in thy panes of gold and scarlet glass
    The setting sun sees thousandfold his face;
    Sorrow and joy, in stately silence pass
    Across thy walls, the shadow and the light;
    Around thy lofty pillars, tapers white
    Illuminate, with delicate sharp flames,
    The brows of saints with venerable names,
    And in the night erect a fiery wall,
    A great but silent fervor burns in all
    Those simple folk who kneel, pathetic, dumb,
    And know that down below, beside the Rhine—­
    Cannon, horses, soldiers, flags in line—­
    With blare of trumpets, mighty armies come.

    Suddenly, each knows fear: 
    Swift rumors pass, that every one must hear,
    The hostile banners blaze against the sky
    And by the embassies mobs rage and cry. 
    Now war has come, and peace is at an end,
    On Paris town the German troops descend. 
    They turned back, and driven to Champagne. 
    And now, as to so many weary men,
    The glorious temple gives them welcome, when,
    It meets them at the bottom of the plain.

    At once, they set their cannon in its way. 
      There is no gable now, nor wall
      That does not suffer, night and day,
    As shot and shell in crushing torrents fall,
    The stricken tocsin quivers through the tower;
    The triple nave, the apse, the lonely choir
      Are circled, hour by hour,
      With thundering bands of fire
    And Death is scattered broadcast among men.

      And then
    That which was splendid with baptismal grace;
    The stately arches soaring into space,
    The transepts, columns, windows gray and gold,
    The organ, in whose tones