“ My bones have been washed clean And God blows through them with a hollow sound, And God has shut his wildfire in my dead heart. ”

I hear it now, Faint, faint as the first droning flies of March, Faint as the multitudinous, tiny sigh Of grasses underneath a windy scythe.

“ It will grow stronger. ”

It has grown stronger. It is marching on. It is a throbbing pulse, a pouring surf, It is the rainy gong of the Spring sky Echoing, John Brown’s body, John Brown’s body. But still it is not fierce. I find it still More sorrowful than fierce.