She came and stood in the Old South Church
  A wonder and a sign,
With a look the old-time sibyls wore,
  Half-crazed and half-divine.

Save the mournful sackcloth about her wound,
  Unclothed as the primal mother,
With limbs that trembled and eyes that blazed
  With a fire she dare not smother.

Loose on her shoulders fell her...