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Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unbornVisioning camp-fires at twilight, sad with a longing forlorn,
Feeling my womb o'er-pregnant with the seed of cities unborn.Masked hate and envying scorn!
By years of havoc yet unborn!Long as, on Freedom's natal morn,
Shall ring the Independence bells,
Give to thy dwellers yet unbornBut if you spurn us, then we shall not mourn.
We too can reckon perfidy no crime,
And countless generations yet unbornMan has all-hailed you from creation's morn,
I cannot think you old-I think, indeed,
You are by twenty centuries unborn.How can she die, she is the blood unborn,
The energy in earth's arteries beating red,
The world will flame with her in some great morn,Both the born and the unborn,
As traitors did he challenge
With taunting words of scorn.Unsparingly my corn—
For a world harvest-haunted
And for a world unborn.Dear rose without a thorn,
Thy bud's the babe unborn:And grateful ages yet unborn
Shall bless Euphrasia's floating veil;
Thence dawned on Art a brighter morn,Are not so easily snapped or torn;
And we may journey with eyes unseeing
On paths that meet in the years unborn.Oh, Manon, there are women yet unborn
Shall rue thy frailty, else am I forsworn.And maze her with most tender scorn,
Who stands beside the Gates of Birth,
Herself a child--a child unborn!She felt her spirit die unborn.
A ghost, she moved on earth apart,
And feared to face the angels' scorn.To children yet unborn,
While false philosophy growing old
Fades and is killed by scorn.And who will be the hiss and scorn
Of generations yet unborn,What of their children all unborn?
What of the house they should have built?
She wanders through her days forlorn,A love, that was to be, past hence unborn,
The sun o'erclouded ere it rose at morn.And among them are the fearless and the meek and the unborn;
And a question that has held us heretofore without an answer
May abide without an answer until all have ceased to mourn.