When the last torches
Of the avatars have ceased to flame,
And the wings of seraphim
No longer shadow the earth;
When the last thinning wine
Of liberty is drunken;
When even the ghost of Lincoln,
Hearing the drums of death
In the distance,
Stalks bonily through the night,
Then will the I-didn't-believe-it people
Shriek to the poet-prophets,
"Burn your incense upon the altars
And sing your new song before the Throne!"
Different
