Musing, I wait till the torrented forces
Shake the black crowd to a crash of cheers
At the measured trample of Liberty’s horses,
The iron eyes of her cannoneers!
Whose is your guerdon now, bright palm-bearer?
Courier of Valor none gainsayeth,
For the old great cause, or a new cause fairer,
Angel of Courage and Love and Death?
Freedom’s my guerdon. Her least word spoken
Is a wind to shuffle the kings to sand,