Clemenceau

 His frown brought terror to his foes,
 But now in twilight of his days
The pure perfection of a rose
 Can kindle rapture in his gaze.

Where once he swung the sword of wrath
 And peoples trembled at his word,
With hoe he trims a pansied path
 And listens to a bird.


His large of life was lived with noise,
 With war and strife and crash of kings:
But now he hungers for the joys
 Of peace, and hush of homely things.

His old dog nuzzles by his knee,
 And seems to say: 'Oh Master dear,
Please do not ever part from me!
 We are so happy here.
'

His ancient maid, as sky draws dim,
 Calls to him that the soup grows cold.

She tyrannises over him
 Who once held armies in his hold.

With slippers, old skull-cap and shawl
 He dreams and dozes by the fire,
Sighing: 'Behold the end of all,
 Sweet rest my sole desire.


'My task is done, my pen is still;
 My Book is there for all to see,--
The final triumph of my will,
 Ineffably, my victory.

A Tiger once, but now a lamb,
 With frailing hand my gate I close.

How hushed my heart! My life how calm!
 --Its crown a Rose.
'

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