Our grosser nature ever strives to win us

From worship of the beautiful and bright,

And deaf are many to the voice within us

That whispers “seek the light!”

Not they alone work faithfully who labor

On the dull, dusty thoroughfare of life;

The clerkly pen can vanquish when the sabre

Is useless in the strife.

In cloistered gloom the quiet man of letters,

Launching his thoughts like arrows from the bow,