Classic Poem

That the fine edge of intellect is dulled,
And mortal ken with cloudy films obscure,
And the numb'd heart so deep in stupor lulled
That virtue's self is weak its love to lure,
But pride and lust keep all the gates secure,
This is thy fall, O man; and therefore those
Whose aims are earthly, like pedestrian prose,
The selfish, useful, money-making plan,
Cold language of the desk, or quibbling bar,
Where in hard matter sinks ideal man:
Still, worldly teacher, be it from me far
Thy darkness to confound with yon bright band
Poetic all, though not so named by men,
Who have swayed royally the mighty pen,
And now as kings in prose on fame's clear summit stand.