Not for the thought that burns on keen and clear,
Heat that the heat has turned from red to white,
The passion of the lone remembering night
One with the patience day must see and hear—
Not for the shafts the lying foemen fear,
Shot from the soul's intense self-centring light—
But for the heart of love divine and bright,
We praise you, worker, thinker, poet, seer!
Man of the People,—faithful in all parts,
The veins' last drop, the brain's last flickering dole,
You on whose forehead beams the aureole
That hope and "certain hope" alone imparts—
Us have you given your perfect heart and soul;
Wherefore receive as yours our souls and hearts!