Winter of 1873， Congress in Session

    NAY， tell me not to-day the publish'd shame，

    Read not to-day the journal's crowded page，

    The merciless reports still branding forehead after forehead，

    The guilty column following guilty column.

    To-day to me the tale refusing，

    Turning from it - from the white capitol turning，

    Far from these swelling domes， topt with statues，

    More endless， jubilant， vital visions rise

    Unpublish'd， unreported.

    Through all your quiet ways， or North or South， you Equal

    States， you honest farms，

    Your million untold manly healthy lives， or East or West，

    city or country，

    Your noiseless mothers， sisters， wives， unconscious