Place de la Condorde, August 14, 1914

Near where the royal vicitims fell In days gone by, caught in the swell Of a ruthless tide Of human passion, deep and wide: There where we two A Nations's later sorrow knew -- To-day, O friend! I stood Amid a self-ruled multitude That by nor sound nor word Betrayed how mightily its heart was stirred. A memory Time never could efface -- A memory of Grief -- Like a great Silence brooded o'er the place; And men breathed hard, as seeking for relief From an emotion strong That would not cry, though held in check too long. One felt that joy drew near -- A joy intense that seemed itself to fear -- Brightening in eyes that had been dull, As all with feeling gazed Upon the Strasbourg figure, raised Above us -- mourning, beautiful! Then one stood at the statue's base, and spoke -- Men needed not to ask what word; Each in his breast the message heard, Writ for him by Despair, That evermore in moving phrase Breathes from the Invalides and Père Lachaise -- Vainly it seemed, alas! But now, France looking on the image there, Hope gave her back the lost Alsace. A deeper hush fell on the crowd: A sound -- the lightest -- seemed too loud (Would, friend, you had been there!) As to that form the speaker rose, Took from her, fold on fold, The mournful crape, gray-worn and old, Her, proudly, to discolose, And with the touch of tender care That fond emotion speaks, 'Mid tears that none could quite command, Placed the Tricolor in her hand, And kissed her on both cheeks!