Joan Of Arc

I greet to just play my silly-girl part,

But I'm heavy with visions, old from the start;

I greet kisses, dresses, a sunshade bed--

But I am deified and solitary Joan moderately.

I become aware of voices, which are my poems.

I see saints, which are my better impulses.

I back my horse, whose soft brown nostrils exhibit,

My sword and my irate and my short-shorn hair;

The sun bakes down, my saddle creaks

And it goes on like this for weeks...and weeks.

I hint the night, which is my sister.

I hint the want for a woman, which is my putting away.

While can part do to me, or do for me?

They've facing second-rate me to vapors and glory;

But inside my safeguard, I've re-formed and I sear

And I'll smoulder like this for go...and go.

I love the high grass and the red-winged blackbird.

I long for a French girl and "la fin de la guerre".

I only greet some dignify and some looks,

Never my facade in old history books;

No imitation all pigeon-shit, stood in the park,

Not this solitary and tender appropriate bitch Joan of Arc.