With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned-
Albeit laboring for a scanty band
Of white-robed Scholars only-this immense
And glorious Work of fine intelligence!
Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore
Of nicely-calculated less or more;
So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense
These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof
Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells,
Where light and shade repose, where music dwells
Lingering-and wandering on as loath to die;
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
That they were born for immortality.
Inside of King's College Chapel, Cambridge
I spent all of yesterday seething at comments from President Obama that...