When little, coddled men of means
Put their pens to work,
Their product dies a hackyned death,
For egotism lurks.
The crucible of canticles;
Of meter, plot and prose
Burn away distinctions
That petty men can sow.
Of all the arts and disciplines
Man has given rise
None reveals the crafter
Like the Passion of the Wise.
The art that has imbued us
With a reverence for thought,
Is all that never could be killed
And still, yet to be bought.
