The ages know not age, but ever run
In youth—yet youthless, for they bring us age—
Why sit you in the sun that sinks to show
Man’s self a parable; not inchoate
Like something self-revolving on itself
To something pre-sublime, co-ordinate
With the eternal justice of the Poles!”
To whom, with bitter smile, the enraptured sage
Curling a blue spire from his hollow clay—
“Oh, ax the Parson. I don’t know no French!”