O Wisdom! What are you? And how can I
Name you? Even the philosopher, who
Calls himself your lover, and who would sigh
To possess you, can he weave a wreath to
Crown you worthily? Will anything do
To offer fitting homage? My poor song
Shall, truly - if you should help it along.

O Wisdom! I shall praise you! You, like light
Which scythes through crowding darkness, are a blade
Which sunders the veil, driving into sight
What ignorance hides; and, having been made
Manifest, your glory shall never fade.
You slip past the warden’s dark, foolish walls
And cause dawn to break in black prison halls.

O Wisdom! Hear me, as I thee invoke,
With haste fly to me from thy golden throne,
For I would take upon myself thy yoke,
I would thy precepts, all sweet, gladly own,
For without thee I should be quite alone,
E’en with friends abounding (and golden must
Her throne be, I know, for gold does not rust).