St. Jeanne Rides Out (For Amy Lowell) Poem by Margaret Widdemer

St. Jeanne she sat with Michaël,
With Marguerite and Raphaël,
And all the saints who sent her forth a many years ago,
And high behind her gold-ringed head,
The martyrs dressed in white and red
And seraphim all silver-winged they chanted row on row.
St. Jeanne she spoke to Michaël,
To Marguerite and Raphaël,
'Oh, here's no place for such as I, all white and gold and warm,
For I was but a peasant maid
Strong of arm and unafraid,
Before you sent me garnering along the battle-storm.'
St. Jeanne she's laid her garlands by,
Her crown and palm that glittered high
And all the golden trinketry she won at Heaven Gate,
She's out along by Mary's Street
Where little stars lie thick and sweet,
With helm and sword they took from her at Rouen-Town of late.
St. Peter swore, 'The gate stands wide,
So many folk have marched inside–
I'll drop my golden keys tonight and snatch a sword again!'
And stalwart saints and martyrs all
And sworded angels silver-tall
In straight and shining companies they've followed in her train.
And down the fields of Paradise
The churchmen all so great and wise
Who won to Heaven so hardly once, they've knelt to her at last,
All they who laughed at Rouen-Town
To see the flames beat up and down
And learned her for a saint that day, they follow glad and fast.
Oh, did you hear the shouting then?
Along the fields of weary men
There's lifted heart and strengthened arm and laughing glad accord:
Oh, who may doubt what end may be?
With all her wingéd chivalry
St. Jeanne rides down her fields tonight to battle for the Lord!