I love you, I love you, though toil may obscure
And make dimmer the light of my eye,
Though slow runs my blood, and my heart, if as pure
Beats calmer when women are nigh.
Yet out from my heart comes a passionate wail
With a note of sincerity true,
The protest of my heart, though its vigour may fail,
Yet beats stronger its love, dear, for you.
I love you, I love you, no swain to his dear,
Nor mother to first fruit of her womb,
Nor thinker to thought he has garnered in tear,
Prom the deserts where Truth hid in gloom,
Hath love more devoted, more unfailing than he
Now laying this poor wreath at thy shrine
In hope that accepted this offering will be
And remembered when victory is thine.
Yes, Freedom, I love you, my soul thou has fired
With the flame that redeems from the clay,
Thou hast given to me, as to Moses inspired,
A glimpse of that land, bright as day,
Which Labour must journey, though each foot of road
Sweated blood from the graves of our best,
Where built upon Justice and Truth the abode
Thou preparest awaits the oppress.