FRANCE is planting her gardens,
France is preparing her spring;
Seeds in their long rows slumbering,
Bulbs in their ranks outnumbering,
For the brown beds' bordering;
France is planting her gardens,
France is preparing her spring,
France—of the ermined lilies,
France—of the Fleur-de-Lys;
And royal still her will is,
Say the stately Tuileries.
Her crippled and maimed and broken
Walk smiling, in her sun;
These are they who have spoken
Her word by the lips of Verdun;
Their little, gay children go leaping—
Laugh loud from the merry-go-round;
France has sown, for their reaping,
The flowers of France that are sleeping
Near by, in the warm brown ground.
France has planted her Garden,
France has prepared her a Spring,
All mankind for its warden,
Love for its singing bird;
Never the frost shall harden
Earth that has in its keeping
Seed sown there at her word,
Never the birds take wing;
Where the flower of France is sleeping
That earth shall have her spring!