John Brown’s body lies a-moldering in the grave,
John Brown’s body lies slumbering in his grave—
But John Brown’s soul is marching with the brave,
His soul is marching on.
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
His soul is marching on.
...
I found the words to every thought
I ever had — but One —
And that — defies me —
As a Hand did try to chalk the Sun
To Races — nurtured in the Dark —
How would your own — begin?
Can Blaze be shown in Cochineal —
Or Noon — in Mazarin?
The words the happy say
Are paltry melody
But those the silent feel
Are beautiful —
Your thoughts don't have words every day
They come a single time
Like signal esoteric sips
Of the communion Wine
Which while you taste so native seems
So easy so to be
You cannot comprehend its price
Nor its infrequency
