The rivers broaden to the sea
In power and wealth and pride,
And stately ships from all the world
Do berth on every tide . . .
But Marne hath never port nor pier,
Warehouse nor wharf nor quay,
And the very name of her is lost
Before she finds the sea.

The rivers run rejoicing down
And singing as they flow,
In rain or sun their course assigned
Pursuing, swift or slow . . .
But Marne goes weeping all day long,
And is not comforted,
Her trampled banks and bloodied pools,
And shallows choked with dead.

Yet hath she glory of her own
'Mid rivers great and small,
And nobler dower than pride or power
Is hers among them all,
Poor Marne hath seen the hosts of Hell
Turned backward from their goal,
And the stormy dawn of Hope arise
On earth's war-darkened soul,

And the Marne hath fame for evermore
While the floods of Time shall roll.