(In the Art Institute, Chicago)
He looks upon the daily passing throng,
As in his day he gazed upon the world,
With cynic smile while it did pass along
With standards of its varied creeds unfurled;
Upon his forehead, reason’s citadel,
His searching thoughts have left their runic stamp;
The meager hands and neck the story tell,
How frail the temple of his spirit’s lamp;
In classic robe and fillet does he sit,
The poet-critic of France’ golden age,
By whom the torch of liberty was lit,
In truth and beauty on the written page;--
And work and freedom in this sage did find
Their true apostle to all humankind.