“Glory, Glory Hallelujah, Glory, Glory, Hallelujah, Glory, Glory, Hallelujah!”

What is this agony of the marching dust? What are these years ground into hatchet blades?

“ Ask the tide why it rises with the moon, My bones and I have risen like that tide And an immortal anguish plucks us up And will not hide us till our song is done. ”

The phantom drum diminishes⁠—the year Rolls back. It is only winter still, not spring, The snow still flings its white on the new grave, Nothing is changed, John Brown, nothing is changed John⁠ ⁠… Brown⁠ ⁠…