What if thou shovest 'neath the printer's nose,
Cords of mis-spelled, unpunctuated prose!
What if, picked from the wing of senseless goose,
Thou'rt still by that loud biped oft in use!
Thou'rt sometimes plucked from Wisdom's glittering wing;
And yet we cannot hail thee Sanctum King!
Is it The Pencil? Sad would be the lot
Of any sanctum where this help were not!
Turn, Faber, in thy half-forgotten grave,
And see the branches of thy bay-tree wave!