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,