EARTH loves to gibber o'er her dross, Her golden souls, to waste;
The cup she fills for her god-men Is a bitter cup to taste.
Who sees the gyves that bind mankind And strives to strike them off Shall gain the hissing hate of fools, Thorns, and the ingrate's scoff.
Who storms the moss-grown walls of eld And beats some falsehood down Shall pass the pallid gates of death Sans laurel, love or crown;
For him who fain would teach the world The world holds hate in fee--For Socrates, the hemlock cup;
For Christ, Gethsemane.
