There is beauty in the pluming vials;
To measure the World discreet;
Charges that pulse even the inert,
Or eternal vibrations of the smallest strings--
All things playing to assert
A universal symphony.
Science, like the Poet's mind,
Cannot be shunned
For calculation--the numbers dance
And flutter down like the softest rhyme.
Does not the Wordsmith, in pensive state,
Cry Eureka! when he strives
And fashions in such harmony?
Astronomers of our starry night,
By man's scope,
Of the celestial waltz mystique,
Of titan orbs and lowly vapors run
Like a palette overflowed with colorings,
Though the canvas darkly dun--
There is beauty in its artistry.