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Poem	Fresh morning gusts have blown away all fear From my glad bosom,—now from gloominess I mount for ever—not an atom less Than the proud laurel shall content my bier. No! by the eternal stars! or why sit here In the Sun's eye, and 'gainst my temples press Apollo's very leaves, woven to bless By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear. Lo! who dares say, "Do this"? Who dares call down My will from its high purpose? Who say,"Stand," Or, "Go"? This mighty moment I would frown On abject Caesars—not the stoutest band Of mailed heroes should tear off my crown: Yet would I kneel and kiss thy gentle hand.
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