Let others walk the unexacting ways
That are the cities' poor pretense of pleasure,
But you, the peer of genius whom we praise,
Keeper of Beauty, peril not your treasure
Not for yourself alone the lyric urn
You lift to the ecclesiastic measure,
Acolyte only briefly and in turn
Of Beauty's curve, the spirit's only leisure.

As if we asked a child to lift gray boulders,
We, burden-bearers, look to you to end them,
We place frail Beauty sheer upon those shoulders
So slight that college daisy-wreaths might bend them…
We that tread after you, processional,
Declare you Beauty-bearer for us all.