Page:John Brown's body by Stephen Vincent Benét.djvu/18

 Receive the dream too haughty for the breast,

Receive the words that should have walked as bold

As the storm walks along the mountain-crest

And are like beggars whining in the cold.

The maimed presumption, the unskilful skill,

The patchwork colors, fading from the first,

And all the fire that fretted at the will

With such a barren ecstasy of thirst.

Receive them all—and should you choose to touch them

With one slant ray of quick, American fight,

Even the dust will have no power to smutch them,

Even the worst will glitter in the night.

If not—the dry bones littered by the way

May still point giants toward their golden prey.