O garland not the worthless weeds
Which shade the sweet flowers in the meads,
Neglecting the most bright and fair
Like undiscerning zealots do,
Who rather love the false than true,
And to the grain prefer the tare.
Strange, that so many set their store
Not on the glorious golden ore,
But in the very worthless dross;
Their minds with heaps of rubbish filled,
Untrained-unexercised-unskilled
To sever mental gain from loss.
Ours be a higher, nobler goal,
To cultivate the sense and soul,
Not with the useless and the rude;
But with truth's ever-during charm
The powers of darkness to disarm,
And fill the world with light and good.