In this neglected garden grows
Each weed, each wild-flower of the mind;
No hundred-petaled essay-rose,
But sowings of the wastrel wind.

Here may we loose the fretting rein,
And let the jaded thoughts go free;
Clipped Fancy finds her wings again;
The mill-stream plunges to the sea.

Elsewhere we serve the Solemn Muse,
A-tremble lest we meet her frown;
But here sweet liberty we use,
And jot our idle pot-hooks down.

Upon her robe's fair-shining hems
We scrawl half-hints of what we heard—
Perversions of her apothegms—
Mock-echoes of her thundering Word.—

Some jangled notes of Song Divine
That perished in the program's din—
Some wry grimace at fates malign—
Some glimpses of the heart within.

O Muse of Learning! Maid austere!
We march obedient in thy train,
And serve as best we may. But here—
Avaunt! This is not thy domain.