Julia Ward Howe Poems

. Howe's Final version
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fatal lightning of his terrible swift sword:
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The shell of objects inwardly consumed
Will stand, till some convulsive wind awakes;
Such sense hath Fire to waste the heart of things,
Nature, such love to hold the form she makes.
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I never made a poem, dear friend-
I never sat me down, and said,
This cunning brain and patient hand
Shall fashion something to be read.
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Arise then...women of this day!
Arise, all women who have hearts!
Whether your baptism be of water or of tears!
Say firmly:
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What is thy thought of me?
What is thy feeling?
Lov'st thou the veil of sense,
Or its revealing?
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Do not tie my wings,
Says the honey-bee;
Do not bind my wings,
Leave them glad and free.
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A gallant foeman in the fight,
A brother when the fight was o'er,
The hand that led the host with might
The blessed torch of learning bore.
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'The beggar boy is none of mine,'
The reverend doctor strangely said;
'I do not walk the streets to pour
Chance benedictions on his head.
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There's a flag hangs over my threshold, whose folds are more dear to me
Than the blood that thrills in my bosom its earnest of liberty;
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WEAVE no more silks, ye Lyons looms,
To deck our girls for gay delights!
The crimson flower of battle blooms,
...