Poems
These I have loved—these touched—these known,
Think, if my anger backward blown
Shall not for wasted love atone.
Think, if my anger backward blown
Shall not for wasted love atone.
Your strong blood leaps—loud is the cry
Of victory. A mighty flood—
Century on mighty century—
Pours round your feet—oh! calm your mood.
Fear—lest your fearless gaze shall scan
No longer stones Republican,
But strongholds of the Persian.
Of victory. A mighty flood—
Century on mighty century—
Pours round your feet—oh! calm your mood.
Fear—lest your fearless gaze shall scan
No longer stones Republican,
But strongholds of the Persian.
Think you your weapons cast aside
No hands shall gather, that the fire,
Hungry and still unsatisfied,
Fails and is quenched at your desire?
I tell you nay—by others lit
No hands shall gather, that the fire,
Hungry and still unsatisfied,
Fails and is quenched at your desire?
I tell you nay—by others lit
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