The Scholar
FOR thought, and not praise,
Thought is the wages
For which I sell days,
Will gladly sell ages
And willing grow old,
Deaf and dumb, blind and cold,
Melting matter into dreams,
Panoramas which I saw,
And whatever glows or seems
Into substance, into Law.
THE sun and moon shall fall amain
Like sowers’ seeds into his brain,
There quickened to be born again.