In verse, when one sees ‘fair’, one calls to mind
The sheltered brow of some young English flower
Whose parasol before, bonnet behind,
Preserve her cheek unkissed by sun or suitor.
But that is not my plaint. I sing of “fair”
That stands for justice, and not mere disuse;
That says that beauty’s not worn out with wear,
Nor songs with singing, and doth call a truce
With those, inspired, who yet fear to stand
As muse to others. New sculptors mold old myths,
As gowns outworn turn quilts by many hands,
And broken silver shines again by smiths,
Thus, we may make new wholes from these old parts—
encourage science, and the useful arts.