To ——

Clearheaded friend, whose joyful scorn,

Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atwain

The knotted lies of human creeds,

The wounding cords which bind and strain

The heart until it bleeds,

Rayfringéd eyelids of the morn

Roof not a glance so keen as thine:

If aught of prophecy be mine,

Thou wilt not live in vain.

Lowcowering shall the Sophist sit;

Falsehood shall bare her plaited brow:

Fairfronted 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 through and through with cunning words.

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 writhèd 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.