As one who throws a flickering taper’s ray
To light departing feet, my shadowed way
You brighten with your faith. Faith makes the man
Alas, that my poor foolish age outran
Its early trust in God! The death of art
And progress follows, when the world’s hard heart
Casts out religion. ’Tis the human brain
Men worship now, and heaven, to them, means—gain.