Where do you bank such fires as can transmute This granite-fact intransigence of life, Such proud irenic faith as can refute The upstart logic of this world of strife— Its come-and-go of racial dust, its strum Of windy discords from the seven seas, Its scream of fifes and din of kettle-drum That lead the march towards our futurities? The proof, that slays the reason, has no power To stem your will, corrode your soul—though lime Conspire with earth and water to devour The finest cultures from the lust of slime; Though crumbled Tartar hordes break through their sod To blow their grit into the eyes of God.