IN the lone tent, waiting for victory,
 She stands with eyes marred by the mists of pain,
 Like some wan lily overdrenched with rain:
 The clamorous clang of arms, the ensanguined sky,
 War's ruin, and the wreck of chivalry,
 To her proud soul no common fear can bring:
 Bravely she tarrieth for her Lord the King,
 Her soul a-flame with passionate ecstasy.
 O Hair of Gold! O Crimson Lips! O Face
 Made for the luring and the love of man!
 With thee I do forget the toil and stress,
 The loveless road that knows no resting place,
 Time's straitened pulse, the soul's dread weariness,
 My freedom and my life republican!