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To—

         
            I.

      Clear-headed friend, whose joyful scorn,
          Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atwain
              The knots that tangle human creeds,
          The wounding cords that bind and strain
              The heart until it bleeds,
      Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn
              Roof not a glance so keen as thine;
              If aught of prophecy be mine,
          Thou wilt not live in vain.
       

            II.

      Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit;
          Falsehood shall bare her plaited brow;
          Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not now
      With shrilling shafts of subtle wit.
      Nor martyr-flames, nor trenchant swords
          Can do away that ancient lie;
          A gentler death shall Falsehood die,
      Shot thro’ and thro’ with cunning words.

       

            III.

      Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch,
          Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost need,
          Thy kingly intellect shall feed,
      Until she be an athlete bold,
      And weary with a finger’s touch
          Those writhed limbs of lightning speed;
      Like that strange angel which of old,
          Until the breaking of the light,
      Wrestled with wandering Israel,
          Past Yabbok brook the livelong night,
      And heaven’s mazed signs stood still
      In the dim tract of Penuel.
       


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