PENMARCH—BRITTANY At the time of the “Pardon,” 1914.

THE Penmarch roads are sandy white; By the old church the blue nets dry, Stretched to the sea. The poppies bright, Tremulous scarlet splashes high On tawny dunes. Small wooden shoes, Stiff snowy caps and ribbon hues Go clattering to the market place. ’Tis Pardon-day by Maries’ Grace, (And little Bretons form a ring, And pause to hear a Lady sing.) What does she sing, this Lady, who Is like embodied song, her eyes, Clear with the light of faith where through Looks sweetness of her soul’s surmise? What are the words she sings, her smile So Mother-merry? What the wile That draws the small coifs nearer, near, And charms away the peasant fear (Shy little Bretons keep their ring, And stay to hear the Lady sing.) Blue sky is part, blue sea is part; Flax, wheat, and poppies fill the strain; Her wide eyes deepen with her art Like gentian flowers after rain. ’Tis World-Dream in her simple lay— Adventure, Faith, and Love and Play. No wonder wooden shoes keep time To magic of her lilting rhythm. (Gay little Bretons hold their ring, Shouting the Stranger-Lady, “Sing!”) That was one summer. Now a dirge Breaks on that coast in bitter wail, And news told by the ocean surge Makes Breton-maids and mothers quail. O holy Fires of fisher-lights. Gleam out no more on Pardon nights! The great red sails hang listless, torn The empty blue nets trail forlorn. And yet I think that little feet Sometimes on Penmarch beaches meet, And Penmarch children cease their play To talk of how She sang that day, And that once more a happy ring Is formed to hear a Lady sing!