War's horror at its worst, the seeds of change
⁠Darkly at work for nations, churches, kings,
What is there in an old man's death so strange
⁠To give it rank among eventful things?

Nor king is he, nor president, nor pope;
⁠He holds nor sword of strength, nor keys of power;
Hangs on his life nor world-wide fear nor hope;
⁠If he was e'er "the man," long past his hour.

Yet but one statesman's exit, and no king's,
⁠Could give such theme for thought, and, tongue, and pen,
As this small eighty-years-old bourgeois' brings
⁠The lightest hearts, and quickest wits, of men.

France, save the fraction that flings filth for flowers,
⁠Utters one voice of sorrowing regret
O'er him who gave her his long manhood's powers,
⁠Whom death, at eighty, found her soldier yet,

Unbowed beneath the burden of fourscore,
⁠Donning his armor for the self-same fight
In which, a stripling, erst the flag he bore
⁠Of might enthroned in power, with law-based right.

What wonder France should sorrow so for him
⁠Who scorned what she scorns, held what she holds dear;
Whose quick sense saw no truth, while it was dim,
⁠Content to rest in half-truth, while 'twas clear.

The sharpest-shaping, keenest-biting wit
⁠That kept alive the memory of Voltaire;
Most French of Frenchmen, apt with phrase to fit
⁠The unspoken sentiment that filled the air,

So giving it the concrete life that moulds
⁠A party’s purpose, people's mood, to act;
Finding, at need, the wanted word that holds
⁠A nation's fancy, till it turns to fact.

Against such gifts, what was it that his pen
⁠At times postponed harsh truth to happy phrase?
If, when he ministered as chief of men,
⁠The statesman grasped at times the meaner praise

Of winning cleverly, than on the square?
⁠The jury he appealed to were his peers;
His history was their legend, written fair;
⁠His spice of false won for his truth their ears.

Nor only France he glassed, in fleck and flaw;
⁠From youth he was the soldier-sworn of right
Set in the adamantine bounds of law,
⁠For that was first, would have been last, to fight.

And therefore France, once more upon the verge
⁠Of that sad war 'tis still her fate to wage,
'Twixt might with power, right with but law to urge,
⁠Took him for champion even in his age.

Prone as she is good service to forget,
⁠And fickle in her favor, as they say,
Still in her heart she bore the man who set
⁠Weakness aside, and cast old age away,

Posting the world to raise her up a friend;
⁠Then, harder task, subdued his wrath and shame,
His conquered country's interest to defend,
⁠And melt her conquerors to milder frame.

Who, when concession’s utmost boon was wrung,
⁠Despaired not of his country, stricken low,
Beaten and bleeding, but her nerves re-strung
⁠In tune to his, weak wailing to forego;

With hardness to endure, war's debt to pay,
⁠And peace's work with heart and hope set to,
To earn the ransom she had wealth to pay,
⁠And envy of her conquerors thereto.

For this she mourns him — lays upon his bier
⁠Tribute of common grief, the civic crown;
And holds this little bourgeois, henceforth, dear,
⁠Among her great ones to the dead gone down.

There sounds a rustling in the standing corn;
⁠There hangs a bright-cheeked apple on the bough;
And later lingers now the tardy morn,
⁠And evening shadows gather sooner now.

One crimson branch flames 'mid the maple wood;
⁠One red leaf hides amid the woodbine's green;
And clean-raked fields lie bare, where lately stood
⁠The tawny grain amid the summer scene.

Blue gentians show 'mid meadow grasses sear,
⁠And, from the stubble, shrill the crickets sing:
A requiescat o'er the falling year
⁠All sounds seem sadly chorusing.