Father Homer, thee,
Thee also I forgive thy sandy wastes
Of prose and catalogue, thy drear harangues
That tease the patience of the centuries,
Thy sleazy scrap of story,–but a rogue’s
Rape of a light-o’-love,–too soiled a patch
To broider with the gods.
Thee, Socrates,
Thou dear and very strong one, I forgive
Thy year-worn cloak, thine iron stringencies
That were but dandy upside-down, they words
Of truth that, mildlier spoke had mainlier wrought.
–Sidney Lanier, from ‘The Crystal’