Guy Wetmore Carryl

“ The Seine in silence blots away the past.
Blots out the warning of cathedral bells,
The night of snowy scarfs, of swords, of staves,
The muffled bass of tumbril wheels that tells
Of mortal men that dig immortal graves;
Blots out the faces, calmly unafraid.
Of prince and peasant, courtesan and queen.
When men made martyrs and were martyrs made,
When France meant Hell and God meant Guillotine!
Like pilgrims whom a holy city calls,
The peoples bring their miracles to her ”

“ The pæan of the mastery of man.
Man! Born to grovel in a squalid cave,
Whose hand it is that every door unbars.
Whose cables cleave three thousand miles of wave,
Whose lenses tear their secrets from the stars! ”