Page:Emily Dickinson Poems (1890).djvu/40

From Wikisource
Jump to: navigation, search
This page has been validated.
XVIII.

THE BOOK OF MARTYRS.

Read, sweet, how others strove,
Till we are stouter ;
What they renounced,
Till we are less afraid ;
How many times they bore
The faithful witness,
Till we are helped,
As if a kingdom cared !

Read then of faith
That shone above the fagot ;
Clear strains of hymn
The river could not drown ;
Brave names of men
And celestial women,
Passed out of record
Into renown !