Oh, what was in this birth day, who could tell?
Who knew what force of life had burst, to swell
In total selfishness—one sovereign soul
Who chose the real in all, the honest, true,
And with completest loyalty followed through,
So thought, emotion, act, were pure and whole?
And oh, what acts of hers heroical
Did she accomplish, standing, ne’er to fall
(And spreading, rising, winging mind to mind,
To men who seek and love the heights they find),
Her Anthem, Atlas Shrugged, her Fountainhead,
And all her thoughts, and everything she said?
Oh, what a weighty wealth of truths she wrought,
What happiness in morals shown and taught,
What guiltless glory gifted us to soar,
And answers find to What? and Why? What for?
Yea, certainty she gave, and moral right,
And joy to say, “I live by my own light.”
We cannot praise too much her lifelong day;
Yea, even night was bright with her proud way—
Her ruthless, honest course of thinking clear,
And judgment just, pronouncing without fear.—
And down went altruism—into dust!
And down subjectivism—tied and trussed!
She’s shown existnce to be anti-blind
And cast aside the primacy of mind!
Now individual rights are roused to reign,
And selfishness, man’s glory to sustain.
For greatness rising yet with sunlight swell
Oh, what was in her birth day, who could tell?