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.