Revolution

What husks of last year's winter close you in, To-morrow's world–what dead, what wrinkled skin Of ancient parchments, laws, beliefs! what dried, Worn, tattered layers keep the life inside, Where slender as a sword, and tender green It trembles, pushes, patient and unseen: Vibrating atom, fronded silken thread, Some day to shake, to sunder back the dead Two halves of hemispheres–to pierce the crust Of ages' rubbish, crowns and cults and dust! See, iron arms, that clutter all the wide Plateau of liberty–see, fortified Dull spikey towns–you cannot hold your own Against one seed a fecund earth has grown! Alarmed you stand, alert to meet your foe, Ready to battle blow for thundering blow; Nor do you see this sprout of common wheat, The blade, between your firm implanted feet.