Dear Critics! Gentle Judgers! Why so prone In my song's "mingled yarn" to note the worse alone? Clear-sighted for all specks; to brightness blind! Nosed to pick one ill scent from out a flower-fed wind! Ear'd for one discord, sounding casually, In a long breathing-while of tender harmony! Learn'd readers of the gravure o'er the porch; But, of th' esoteric ritual of the church Untutor'd neophytes! If not for heed Of him whose passive soul is but a chosen reed, From which the Universal Pan, soft-breathing, Makes gentle music swell and soar, like incense wreathing Yet, for the sake of all the love he sings, He prays ye -- learn to sigh; and grow less loveless things!