But the remedy? Reason wears a face
Austere, abstracted, void of outward grace.
The problems it would solve are deep and high;
And the informing light they shed is dry.
The crowd, long since besotted, in affright
Shrinks to its lazy phantoms from the sight
Of Wisdom, grim and grimy, in the mire
Calling it to drudge and moil without hire.
Whatever means Souls’ doctors can command
Should not they use to make men understand