Here Alcott thought,—respect a wise man’s door!
No kinder heart a mortal form e’er held;
Its easy hinges ope forevermore
At touch of all,—or fervid Youth or Eld.
A mounting sage was he, and could essay
Bold flights of hope, that softly fed his tongue
With honey; then flew swift that happy day,
As tranced in joy on his pure themes we hung.
He knew the Scholar’s art; with insight spent
On Plato’s sentence, that best poesy,