Sonnet to J.M.K.

My hope and heart is with thee—thou wilt be

A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest

To scare church-harpies from the master's feast:

Our dusted velvets have much need of thee;

Thou art no sabbath-drawler of old saws,

Distilled from some wormcankered homily;

But spurred at heart with fieriest energy

To embattail and to wall about thy cause

With ironworded proof, hating to hark

The humming of the drowsy pulpitdrone

Half God's good sabbath, while the worn-out clerk

Browbeats his desk below. Thou from a throne

Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the dark

Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark.