Odor of blood when Christ was slain Made all Platonic tolerance vain And vain all Doric discipline.

For to articulate sweet sounds together Is to work harder than all these, and yet Be thought an idler by the noisy set Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen The martyrs call the world.

I hear it in the deep heart's core.

Whence had they come The hand and lash that beat down frigid Rome? What sacred drama through her body heaved When world-transforming Charlemagne was conceived?

Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room.

No art can conquer the people alone-the people are conquered by an ideal of life upheld by authority.

For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon.