Dead custom, dead religion, dead desire;
Down the keen wind of dawn the rapture rang,
White with new dream and shot with Shelley’s fire.
“Out of the whirlwind Truth that came on France,
Rose the young Titaness, Democracy,
Superb in gesture, with the godlike glance;
Now stirred, now still with dream of things to be.
“She drew all faces as a lighted tower,
Strong mother of men, molded of lion race;
And all men’s hearts were shaken by her power,