by John Vance Cheney
I honor him who needs must chop the stone,
Must pluck the root up, murder beast and bird,
Then label with a very butcher's word
The bleeding pieces. Though he build his throne
On brittle stalks and hollow carcass-bone,
Still by a princely purpose is he stirred;
And such his thirst for knowledge long deferred,
Kind Nature counts him in among her own.
But him I love the Muses make their care,
Leading his feet wherever he may go,
To spell the gentle magic of the air,
Of olden boughs and darkest brooks that flow.
He has my heart; for perfect things and fair
He finds, and leaves them fairer than they grow.
Last updated September 07, 2017