NOT for the thought that burns on keen and clear,
Heat that the heat has turned from red to white,
The pa**ion 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.