“A foolish dreamer, and nothing more;
The idlest fellow a cell could hold;”
So murmured the worthy Isidor,
Prior of ancient Nithiswold;
Yet pitiful, with dispraise content,
Signed never the culprit’s banishment.
Meanwhile Bartholomew went his way
And patiently wrote in his sunny cell;
His pen fast travelled from day to day;
His books were covered, the walls as well.