Lausanne
A spirit seems to pass,Formal in pose, but grave and grand withal:He contemplates a volume stout and tall,And far lamps fleck him through the thin acacias.
Anon the book is closed,With “It is finished!” And at the alley’s endHe turns, and soon on me his glances bend;And, as from earth, comes speech—small, muted, yet composed.
“How fares the Truth now?—Ill?—Do pens but slily further her advance?May one not speed her but in phrase askance?Do scribes aver the Comic to be Reverend still?
“Still rule those minds on earthAt whom sage Milton’s wormwood words were hurled:‘Truth like a bastard comes into the worldNever without ill-fame to him who gives her birth’?”
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