"One impulse from a vernal wood
The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.
The memory of the just survives in Heaven.
Oh for a single hour of that Dundee Who on that day the word of onset gave!
No motion has she now, no force; she neither hears nor sees; rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.
How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.