The soul eludes the noisy pomp and glare
Of headlines sweeping o'er the page entire;
The tale of war and crime is written there,
Of fraud and faction and the wasting fire.

We turn the leaves until we reach the place
Whereon the music of the gentle rhyme
Is set half-buried in a little space
And find, perchance, a jewel of all time.

As sparkling as the eye of opal dew,
Though here among debris of baseness hid,
Back to the sun it flings its matchless hue,
More during than the oldest pyramid.