Let Poets chant of Clouds and Things In lonely attics! A Nobler Lot is his, who clings To Mathematics.
Sublime he sits, no Worldly Strife His Bosom vexes, Reducing all the Doubts of Life To Y's and X's.
And naught to him's a Primrose on The river's border; A Paralletepipedon Is more in order.
Let Zealots vow to do and dare And right abuses! He'd rather sit at home and square Hypotenuses.
Along his straight-ruled paths he goes Contented with 'em, The only Rhythm that he knows, A Logarithm!