Who loves not knowledge? Who shall rail
⁠Against her beauty? May she mix
⁠With men and prosper! Who shall fix
Her pillars? Let her work prevail.

But on her forehead sits a fire:
⁠She sets her forward countenance
⁠And leaps into the future chance,
Submitting all things to desire.

Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain—
⁠She cannot fight the fear of death.
⁠What is she, cut from love and faith,
But some wild Pallas from the brain

Of Demons? fiery-hot to burst
⁠All barriers in her onward race
⁠For power. Let her know her place;
She is the second, not the first.