John Brown’s raid has gone forward, the definite thing is done, Not as we see it done when we read the books, A clear light burning suddenly in the sky, But dimly, obscurely, a flame half-strangled by smoke, A thing come to pass from a victory not a victory, A dubious doctrine dubiously received. The papers praise, but the recruiting is slow, The bonds sell badly, the grind of the war goes on⁠— There is no sudden casting off of a chain, Only a slow thought working its way through the ground, A slow root growing, touching a hundred soils, A thousand minds⁠—no blossom or flower yet.