I found a quaint and curious picture there,
Of one who gathered straws and dirt with care,
The golden crown above his head unheeding.
Science to-day, than avarice more misleading,
Hath slain our father’s faith and hope and prayer;
We rake the seas, and sweep the earth and air
To find new theories for our own impeding.
And some for tinsel toys of social glory,
And Church and State, toil through the grovelling years.
How can we hear the music of the spheres,