God and Nature met in light.
Wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower.
Virtue must shape itself in deed.
Once in a golden hour, I cast to earth a seed, And up there grew a flower, That others called a weed.
I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, Unboding critic-pen, Or that eternal want of pence, Which vexes public men.
Name and fame! to fly sublime Through the courts, the camps, the schools Is to be the ball of Time, Bandied in the hands of fools.