New Song

When the last torches

Of the avatars have ceased to flame,

And the wings of seraphim

No longer shadow the earth;

When the last thinning wine

Of liberty is drunken;

When even the ghost of Lincoln,

Hearing the drums of death

In the distance,

Stalks bonily through the night,

Then will the I-didn't-believe-it people

Shriek to the poet-prophets,

"Burn your incense upon the altars

And sing your new song before the Throne!"