Classic Poem

They that for freedom feel not love but lust,
Irreverent, knowing not her spiritual claim,
And they, the votaries blind of windy fame.
And they who cry, " I will because I must " ;
They too that launch, screened by her shield august,
A bandit's shaft, some private mark their aim;
And they that make her sacred cause their game,
From restlessness or spleen or sheer disgust
At duteous days — all these, the brood of night,
Diverse, by one black note detected stand,
Their scorn of every barrier raised by right
To awe self-will. Howe'er by virtue banned.
By reason spurned, that act the moment needs
Licensed they deem; holy whate'er succeeds.