high stations, Your forts blood-based, and rampires of your powers:      Lo now the last of divers desolations, The hand of time, that gathers hosts like flowers; Time, that fills up and pours out generations; Time, at whose breath confounded empire cowers. 

      STROPHE 2 What are these moving in the dawn's red gloom? What is she waited on by dread and doom, Ill ministers of morning, bondmen born of night? If that head veiled and bowed be morning's head, If she come walking between doom and dread, Who shall rise up with song and dance before her sight? Are not the night's dead heaped about her feet? Is not death swollen, and slaughter full of meat? What, is their feast a bride-feast, where men sing and dance? A bitter, a bitter bride-song and a shrill Should the house raise that such bride-followers fill, Wherein defeat weds ruin, and takes for bride-bed France. For nineteen years deep shame and sore desire Fed from men's hearts with hungering fangs of fire, And hope fell sick with famine for the food of change. Now is change come, but bringing funeral urns; Now is day nigh, but the dawn blinds and burns; Now time long dumb hath language, but the tongue is strange. We that have seen her not our whole lives long, We to whose ears her dirge was cradle-song, The dirge men sang who laid in earth her living head, Is it by such light that we live to see Rise, with rent hair and raiment, Liberty? Does her grave open only to restore her dead? Ah, was it this we looked for, looked and prayed, This hour that treads upon the prayers we made, This ravening hour that breaks down good and ill alike? Ah, was it thus we thought to see her and hear, The one love indivisible and dear? Is it her head that hands which strike down wrong must strike? 

      STROPHE 3 Where is hope, and promise where, in all these things, Shocks of strength with strength, and jar of hurtling kings? Who of all men, who will show us any good? Shall these lightnings of blind battles give men light? Where is freedom? who will bring us in her sight, That have hardly seen her footprint where she stood? 

      STROPHE 4 Who is this that rises red with wounds and splendid, All her breast and brow made beautiful with scars, Burning bare as naked daylight, undefended, In her hands for spoils her splintered prison-bars, In her eyes the light and fire of long 

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