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To races nurtured in the dark; -- |
How would your own begin? |
Can blaze be done in cochineal, |
Or noon in mazarin? |
VI. |
HOPE. |
Hope is the thing with feathers |
That perches in the soul, |
And sings the tune without the words, |
And never stops at all, |
And sweetest in the gale is heard; |
And sore must be the storm |
That could abash the little bird |
That kept so many warm. |
I 've heard it in the chillest land, |
And on the strangest sea; |
Yet, never, in extremity, |
It asked a crumb of me. |
VII. |
THE WHITE HEAT. |
Dare you see a soul at the white heat? |
Then crouch within the door. |
Red is the fire's common tint; |
But when the vivid ore |
Has sated flame's conditions, |
Its quivering substance plays |
Without a color but the light |
Of unanointed blaze. |
Least village boasts its blacksmith, |
Whose anvil's even din |
Stands symbol for the finer forge |
That soundless tugs within, |
Refining these impatient ores |
With hammer and with blaze, |
Until the designated light |
Repudiate the forge. |
VIII. |
TRIUMPHANT. |
Who never lost, are unprepared |
A coronet to find; |
Who never thirsted, flagons |
And cooling tamarind. |
Who never climbed the weary league -- |
Can such a foot explore |
The purple territories |
On Pizarro's shore? |
How many legions overcome? |
The emperor will say. |
How many colors taken |
On Revolution Day? |
How many bullets bearest? |
The royal scar hast thou? |
Angels, write "Promoted" |
On this soldier's brow! |
IX. |
THE TEST. |
I can wade grief, |
Whole pools of it, -- |
I 'm used to that. |
But the least push of joy |