To F.W.F.
Farrar, when o’er Goodwin’s page
Late I found thee poring,
From the hydrostatic Sage
Leaky Memory storing,
Or when groaning yesterday
Needlessly distracted
By some bright erratic ray,
Through a sphere refracted,—
Then the quick words, oft suppressed,
In my fauces fluttered;
Thoughts not yet in language drest
Pleasing to be uttered.
He that neatly gilds the pill
Hides the drug but vainly,
So, in chance-sown words, I will
Speak the matter plainly.
Men there are, whose patient minds,
In one object centred,
Wait, till through their darkened blinds
Truth has burst and entered.
Then, that ray so barely caught
Joyfully absorbing,
They behold the realms of Thought
Into Science orbing.
Thus they wait, and thus they toil,
Thus they end in knowing,
Like good seed in kindly soil
Taking root and growing.
Men there are whose ambient souls,
In rapt Intuition,
Seize Creation as it rolls,
Whole, without partition.
Not for them the darkened room,
Lens, and perforation;
Enemies are they to gloom,
Foes to Insulation.
Theirs the light of perfect Day,
Theirs the sense of Freedom;
Dungeons, and the tortured ray,
Serve for those that need ’em.
Song to them of right belongs,
Eloquently flowing;
Sweeping down time-honoured wrongs,
Surging, burning, glowing.
Songs in which all hearts rejoice,
[...] Read more
poem by James Clerk Maxwell
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