The Good Joan

By Lizette Woodworth Reese

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.