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.
. 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:
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.
Arise then...women of this day!
Arise, all women who have hearts!
Whether your baptism be of water or of tears!
What is thy thought of me?
What is thy feeling?
Lov'st thou the veil of sense,
Or its revealing?
Do not tie my wings,
Says the honey-bee;
Do not bind my wings,
Leave them glad and free.
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.
'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.
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;
WEAVE no more silks, ye Lyons looms,
To deck our girls for gay delights!
The crimson flower of battle blooms,