I hear no song. I hear Only the blunt seeds growing secretly In the dark entrails of the preparate earth, The rustle of the cricket under the leaf, The creaking of the cold wheel of the stars.

“ Bind my white bones together⁠—hollow them To skeleton pipes of music. When the wind Blows from the budded Spring, the song will blow. ”

I hear no song. I only hear the roar Of the Spring freshets, and the gushing voice Of mountain-brooks that overflow their banks, Swollen with melting ice and crumbled earth.

“ That is my song. It is made of water and wind. It marches on. ”

No, John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering, A-mouldering.