Classic Poem

I

 Unarmed she goeth; yet her hands
Strike deeper awe than steel-caparison'd bands.
 No fatal hurt of foe she fears,—
Veiled, as with mail, in mist of gentle tears.

II

 'Gainst her thou canst not bar the door:
Like air she enters, where none dared before.
 Even to the rich she can forgive
Their regal selfishness,—and let them live!