And the true child of letters learn
He has no space to breathe or turn,
And scorn accept the Century's plan,
That all may write, save those who can.
I turn me, wearied, at my desk,
From the last "thinker's" last burlesque
The last Agnostic's windy plea
That none knows anything, but he,
In English carefully destroyed
To hide his meaning's outer void;