I come to thee, O Prince—
Though overbold I seem for one so young—
Moved by my love for France the beautiful,
But more by strict obedience to Heaven
Whose words so bade. Therefore I pray thee now
Bear with me patiently the while I tell
The will of God as it of late hath come
To me in voices of His messengers.

Since thou dost ask, I am of Domremy,
A little village where the morning sun
Bursts brightly o'er the blue Alsatian hills,
And wistful flow'rets, turning heavenwards,
Receive upon their lips God's kiss of light.
There did I learn to sew and spin and pray,
And little else, but to obey my Lord.
My soul was glad, and in the strength of God,
I lived content in faith's simplicity.

Then fell the arm of England, stroke on stroke,
And marred my steadfast peace. Each added woe
Was burdened on my soul. Each sad reverse
Filled my sore heart with mourning and with pain
Till from my mute despair, I cried to heaven
And fasted daily, that the power of God
Might curb the foes of France, restore the land,
And give to thee thy throne.


So passed the years
In painfulest defeat that trailed in dust
The heraldry of France. With prayers and tears,
The soul in me grew strong, my vision cleared,
And ofttimes, when the stars hung o'er the land
And earth was brooding 'neath the hovering night,
Clear voices from the awesome silence fell,
With buoyant strength filled my uplifted heart,
And kindled my young soul with freedom's fire.
They bade me come to thee at Orleans,
Procure from thee such armour as was fit,
Go where the stress of siege most hotly pressed,
Nerve France with courage, cheer faint hearts with hope,
Do for relief what circumstance should urge,
And lead to victory the Frankish hosts.

Already have my fateful stars giv'n strength,
Through stress of perilous ways, to come to thee,
Confirming what the voice of Heaven proclaimed.
Give, then, such armour as befits my youth,
A horse that knoweth battle, and I go,
A knight of France by thine authority,
And strengthened by the voices of the Light,
To make thee king before the flying year
Shall reach its winter round.


Thou askest me
My age? Urge not against this enterprise
My tender years. The softness of my youth
Cannot defeat the purpose of the skies.
Though sixteen summers measure all my days,
God hath the power of eternal years;
Shall He not give His word accomplishment?

But how shall faith that asketh signs be strong?
Wise head, weak heart, were mine in such a case.
'Tis hearts of strength that win the battle's crown;
Far wiser heads than mine are losing France.
Give rein to my strong heart, by faith upheld,
Then thy fine reason shall make good her claim.
The Voices say to me, “Do this,” but thou:
“How knowest thou 'tis God that speaks, or that
“Twill be the better if thou dost obey?”
My answer is the present state of France.
Behold her wounds! What could be worse than now?
Give me a sword and arms, a palfrey white,
Emblem of victory; man-girded, I,
With faith in God's strong hand, shall bring thee peace
And eke the crown of France.