Lines to the Statue of Ferdinand Foch
We should not carve in stone. If putty fails
Or soap or sand or muddy-melting snow,
Did not some great Colonial artist show
A bust in butter of the Prince of Wales?
Something whose stuff is mutable as our own
Panic in puffs and shame a passing shower,
But not the memory of our generous hour
Throned like a judge. We should not work in stone.
Before his face whose ever-lifted head
Looks to Our Lady of All The Victories,
The yellow sheets spatter his land with lies
And of his land and ours defile the dead.
Our perishing people, without wall or barn,
Raves by in rout; and over its loud retreat
Forward and foe-ward, against the streaming street,
Rides head to wind the Horseman of the Marne.
Or soap or sand or muddy-melting snow,
Did not some great Colonial artist show
A bust in butter of the Prince of Wales?
Something whose stuff is mutable as our own
Panic in puffs and shame a passing shower,
But not the memory of our generous hour
Throned like a judge. We should not work in stone.
Before his face whose ever-lifted head
Looks to Our Lady of All The Victories,
The yellow sheets spatter his land with lies
And of his land and ours defile the dead.
Our perishing people, without wall or barn,
Raves by in rout; and over its loud retreat
Forward and foe-ward, against the streaming street,
Rides head to wind the Horseman of the Marne.
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