The sage and prophet, vacillating King
And statesmen call aloud for liberty
And light and all beneath thy gracious wing;
To thee the poets sing.
Yet of inquirers many, whoso finds?
Where hidest thou? Point me thy high abode.
Art thou in books? Ah, no! In these there winds
The dusty road of men. Sing me thy ode,
Thy perfect code.
Thou art I know; and sweet and pure thy balm,