The monarch mail’d whose lustre dims his folk,
The people’s guns whose echoes hush their king.
What though dark clouds loom up and storms descend?
True faith would not bemoan the forms they wreck;
For forms if true are formulas of love
That still is ardent to consume them all.
Though lightnings thunder till they crack the sky,
What unroofs rage leaves heaven to dome our peace.
The more convulsion shakes and fire consumes,
The more of love and light may both set free;