CHURCH AND STATE
 
 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.