Classic Poem

Nature works not with violence;
Neither the changes of the hours,
Nor the revolutions of the years.
Patiently the buds peep forth,
And noiselessly the seasons steal away;
Nevertheless, the lightning and the earthquake
Do their appointed work.
The Tempest swings its flail relentlessly nor spares
The tree which has grown old.
The old to die that the young may live.
Rebellion is the outcry of the God in Man.
It, too, is a flail, thrashing the outworn.
Youths who die willingly for your Rulers,
Are you not willing to die for your own souls?
The blood of Martyrs is a rich fertilizer;
And will make lilies bloom amid stones,
Even in the streets of the city.