 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
192
PROSE.
That the fine edge of intellect is dull'dAnd mortal ken with cloudy films obscure,
And the numb'd heart so deep in stupor lull'd
That virtue's self is weak its love to lure,
This is thy fall, O man; and therefore those
Whose aims are earthy, 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 sway'd royally the mighty pen,
And now as kings in prose on Pisgah stand.
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |