Of old our father's God was real, Something they almost saw, Which kept them to a stern ideal And scourged them into awe.
They walked the narrow path of right Most vigilantly well, Because they feared eternal night And boiling depths of Hell.
Now Hell has wholly boiled away And God become a shade.
There is no place for him to stay In all the world He made.
The followers of William James Still let the Lord exist, And call Him by imposing names, A venerable list.
But nerve and muscle only count, Gray matter of the brain, And an astonishing amount Of inconvenient pain.
I sometimes wish that God were back In this dark world and wide;For though sonic virtues He might lack, He had his pleasant side.
GAMALIEL BRADFORD
ROUSSEAU
THAT odd, fantastic ass, Rousseau, Declared himself unique.
How men persist in doing so, Puzzles me more than Greek.
The sins that tarnish whore and thief Beset me every day.
My most ethereal belief Inhabits common clay.
