Your mind was wrought in cosmic solitude,
Through which careered an undulous pageantry
Of fiends and suns, darkness and boiling sea,
All held in ordered sway by beauty's mood.

Guest-champion lent by God, in might you stood
Before the throngs of men; you helped to free
Their souls; below, you played in heavenly key
Your heart's concerto—throbbing interlude.

But your suave Egoist, for selfish fame,
Hurled to the bogs of Hell the Rebel Will
And boxed him dark in freedom's smudgy hearse;
He paid blood-price for thought; his noble shame
Was like the Greek's. Ironically, you thrill
Me not with goodness, but with thundering verse.