Though with no better sickles than our swords.
My soul is not a palace of the past,
Where outworn creeds, like Rome’s gray senate, quake,
Hearing afar the Vandal’s trumpet hoarse,
That shakes old systems with a thunder-fit.
The time is ripe, and rotten-ripe, for change;
Then let it come: I have no dread of what
Is call’d for by the instinct of mankind;
Nor think I that God’s world will fall apart
Because we tear a parchment more or less.