Each scarce-healed cicatrice
Doing to her divers and disgusting things
Whilst in her ears my chaunt,
Re-risen and reboant,
Sounds as one sounds, who, being senseless, sings.
Strophe II.
On one cant name of many names I have chosen—
Freedom—lo, once again I call to thee;
By the cold earth’s iron-bound ends and oceans frozen,
By the rivers that run billowing to the sea,