backward over gaps;
     Abhor the day of Phrygian caps;
     Abjure her guerdon, execrate herself;
     The Hapsburg, Hohenzollern, Guelph,
     Admire repentant; reverently prostrate
     Her person unto the belly-god; of whom
     Is inward plenty and external bloom;
     Enough of pomp and state
     And carnival to quench
     The breast’s desires of an intemperate wench,
     The head’s ideas beyond legitimate.

     She flung them:  she was France:  nor with far frown
     Her lover from the embrace of her refrained: 
     But in her voice an interwoven wire,
     The exultation of her gross renown,
     Struck deafness at her heavens, and they waned
     Over a look ill-gifted to aspire. 
     Wherefore, as an abandonment, irate,
     The intemperate summoned up her trumpet days,
     Her treasure-galleon’s wondrous freight. 
     The cannon-name she sang and shrieked; transferred
     Her soul’s allegiance; o’er the Tyrant slurred,
     Tranced with the zeal of her first fawning gaze,
     To clasp his trophy flags and hail him Saint.

     V

     She hailed him Saint: 
     And her Jeanne unsainted, foully sung! 
     The virgin who conceived a France when funeral glooms
     Across a land aquake with sharp disseverance hung: 
     Conceived, and under stress of battle brought her forth;
     Crowned her in purification of feud and foeman’s taint;
     Taught her to feel her blood her being, know her worth,
     Have joy of unity:  the Jeanne bescreeched, bescoffed,
     Who flamed to ashes, flew up wreaths of faggot fumes;
     Through centuries a star in vapour-folds aloft.

     For her people to hail her Saint,
     Were no lifting of her, Earth’s gem,
     Earth’s chosen, Earth’s throb on divine: 
     In the ranks of the starred she is one,
     While man has thought on our line: 
     No lifting of her, but for them,
     Breath of the mountain, beam of the sun
     Through mist, out of swamp-fires’ lures release,
     Youth on the forehead, the rough right way
     Seen to be footed:  for them the heart’s peace,
     By the mind’s war won for a permanent miracle day.

     Her arms below her sword-hilt crossed,
     The heart of that high-hallowed Jeanne
     Into the furnace-pit she tossed
     Before her body knew the flame,
     And sucked its essence:  warmth for righteous work,
     An undivided power to speed her aim. 
     She had no self but France:  the sainted man
     No France but self.  Him warrior and clerk,
     Free of his iron clutch; and him her young,
     In whirled imagination mastodonized;
     And him her penmen, him her poets; all
     For the visioned treasure-galleon astrain;
     Sent zenithward on bass and treble tongue,
     Till solely through