Classic Poem

This be my pilgrimage and goal,
Daily to march and find
The secret phrases of the soul,
The evangels of the mind.

While easy tongues are lightly heard,
Let me with them be great
Who still upon the perfect word
As heavenly fowlers wait.

In taverns none will I be seen
But can my daemon teach
My cloudy thought to wash all clean
In the bright sun of speech.