Here is fresh matter, poet,
matter for old age meet;
Might of the Church and the State,
their mobs put under their feet.
O but heart's wine shall run pure,
mind's bread grow sweet.
That were a cowardly song,
wander in dreams no more;
What if the Church and the State
are the mob that howls at the door!
Wine shall run thick to the end,
bread taste sour.