Classic Poem

Let Poets chant of Clouds and Things
In lonely attics!
A Nobler Lot is his, who clings
To Mathematics.

Sublime he sits, no Worldly Strife
His Bosom vexes,
Reducing all the Doubts of Life
To Y's and X's.

And naught to him's a Primrose on
The river's border;
A Parallelepipedon
Is more in order.

Let Zealots vow to do and dare
And right abuses!
He'd rather sit at home and square
Hypotenuses.

Along his straight-ruled paths he goes
Contented with 'em,
The only Rhythm that he knows,