When I behold the web around us drawn
From infant pulp to ignorance's end,
To forestall knowledge and the mind transcend
With superstitions from the Arab dawn;
When I see woman, whether doe or fawn,
Hold man's mind back and her stag offspring bend,
And her one half of our progression pawn
At Mont de Piete; when I do count
The unproducing host of medicine men,
Who nibble learning on the convent lawn,
To low, like cattle, from their twilight pen,
That what we know not is life's only fount:
I see a task to make my spirit mount,
I feel my strength is as the strength of ten.