The Good Joan

A long the thousand roads of France,

Now there, and here, swift as a glance,

A cloud, a mist blown down the sky,

Good Joan of Arc goes riding by. In Domremy at candlelight,

The orchards blowing rose and white About the shadowy houses lie;

And Joan of Arc goes riding by. On Avignon there falls a hush,

Brief as the singing of a thrush Across old gardens April-high;

And Joan of Arc goes riding by.