Bent over the map, unsleeping,
There stoops a man.
A Bonaparte breath goes sweeping
Across my land.

For someone the thunder rages:
—Come, bridegroom, come!
Hot hurricane, young dictator,
He tears along.

Those eyes where a wild smile flickers-
Night without stars!
On his sunken tunic, there glitters
A soldier's cross.

He's summoned to peace, he's vanquished
The fever now—
And breathes, hand clasping in anguish
The nation's brow.

21 May 1917
Whit Sunday