A THREADBARE cloak, alas, a tattered sleeve,
A smile ironical, a biting tongue,
The honied sarcasm of a bee that stung,
The arguments that puzzle and deceive,
The snares his crafty questions interweave!
And yet, O Socrates, how wise men hung
Upon thy words, those precious j**els flung
Unto a swinish multitude; it grieves
Our very souls that Plato's garnered sheaves
And worthy Xenophon's small talk is all
That from the buried past we can recall;
Small remnant of thy legacy it leaves.
One saying stays; that thou wouldst gladly die
To share with just men immortality.