THE SCORN OF HUMAN RIGHTS

What is the blight to spring that kills the seed

And raises spectres, so that stars cry "See!"

Aghast at forests, white or shadowy?

The scorn of human rights, that can but lead

The world from doom to doom! and for what mead?

A bronze for rain and rust, or effigy

For nibbling minutes—ah, not hours!—these flee

To life's progression—truth and kindly deed.

Look! How this scorn holds freemen in the dark,

Except for a flare at will that, then, the throng,

Reduced to dust, may rise and whirl along

The lift and drop of glitter, without spark

To set the spring a-crackling with bird song,

Till bud and angel both come out to hark!