Sons of an intellectual age, we scan
And weigh the heart's findings with our mental measures,
Surmising never once that no mind can
Win even a clue to the soul's resplendent treasures.

The more we probe the more must thought mislead
Till even the meaning of our spirit's birth
Is buried in the din of words that plead
For the reign of trifling truths of temporal worth.

You diagnosed this fatal malady
With an insight born of loyalty to love
And so disowned our reasoned revelry
Whose dire discord your heart could never approve.

O Reason's elect, withal, a citizen
Of stellar climes no mind has ever trod:
Who saw your radiant Face could never again
Doubt faith's deep power of leading us back to God.