Sure as roses will bloom in the season of gloom,
It will snow on the Fourth of July.
And the smoke at the end of the continent’s bend—
It will dye itself blue as the sky.

Well the copper was struck and will ring out for good,
Though it sits under dust for the rest;
So they speak of the sound of a Liberty Bell,
Of the promise it gave us to test.

But a freedom is yours as could never be said
By appeal of so crystal a call—
It has been in your mind from before there was sound
And before there was silence.