The flower of reason is sweet to they who smell;
To men who pass it by, they know but Hell.
But he who plucks it, takes it as his own,
Builds gardens rare that else were never known.
The light of logic parts the shadows gray;
The night of ignorance runs swift away;
The mystic creeds are shone for what they are:
The shades of shadows fled in fear afar.
The ground of truth is gold to walk upon,
And he whose feet are bare has gold to give;
Each step he takes but glorifies the dawn—
The dawn, the day, the lifetime that he lives.
His hands swing free, his head is back and high,
He sees his steel stems frame out the sky;
And where those weeds called crosses one time stood,
He smiles to know that now they’re gone for good.
Though men who pass it by know only Hell,
The flower of reason’s sweet to they who smell.