Proud of his calling, him the world loves best
Not as the coming, but the parting guest.
There are the patriarchs looking vaguely round
For classmates' faces, hardly known if found;
See the cold brow that rules the busy mart;
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Close at its side the pallid son of art
Whose purchased skill with borrowed meaning clothes,
And stolen hues, the smirking face he loathes.
Here is the patent scholar; in his looks
You read the titles of his learned books;
What classic lore those spidery crow's-feet speak!
What problems figure on that wrinkled cheek!
For never thought but left its stiffened trace,
Its fossil foot-print, on the plastic face,
As the swift record of a raindrop stands,
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The Stoics and St. Paul.
