Still, they say, she moves through the old-time places,
Joan the Maid, with her great sword girt at her side;
Sheen of wings and shimmer of angel faces
Gather around her as she on doth ride.
Rheims or Orleans may see her thus in splendour,
Never the old Domremy streets she knew,
Here she walks as a maiden, shy and slender,
Brushing with bare brown feet the evening dew.
Oft do the children, playing in the meadows,
See her watching them, white and very fair,
Smiling lips and eyes that dream in the shadows,
Lilies of France she loved so in her hair.
So she comes, through those quiet roadways stealing,
Where in the grey church still her people bend,
Unto the Maiden, their own saint, appealing;
Hears them name her saviour of France and friend.
She has forgotten now the mocking faces,
Prison, and wounds, and torture of the flame;
Still, they say, she moves through the old-time places,
Joan the Maid, whence once, long since, she came.