THE RABBLE FATES—TO HELL WITH THEM!
They fling at me stones and mud,
My clothes are tattered and foul,
My face is covered in blood;
But they haven’t hurt my soul.
They have beaten me sore—in truth
No part of me stands whole!
They have stolen away my youth:
But they could not steal my soul.
Robbed, baffled, and broken,
Something lives in me whole;
And I hold by that for a token
That they cannot conquer my soul.
Let them thrash me with knotted sorrow,
Stone me with sharp regret;
I shall be their king on a morrow,
My soul is a monarch yet.