Jeanne d'Arc

She dropped in feathered flight, rocklike, aflame;
her breath consumed the air, the earth, the ground.
The peasants, shiftless, arrogant and lame
gathered with murmurs, raised her a thorny crown.

No raging warrior-queen like Maeve was she;
no friend had she upon the haunted earth.
A prince's heart she won, murmuring quietly,
and won for a beleaguered nation a rebirth.

In the dark depths of night, of heart, of stone
her faith's flick'ring candle nearly snuffed,
she thought that she was frozen and alone,
she thought she knew her death was not enough.

Though flames ate her body she became
eyes for the blind, flight for the lame.