618 JAMES CLERK MAXWELL. 



TO F. W. F. 



6th April 1853. 

 FARRAR, when o'er Goodwin's page 



Late I found thee poring, 

 From the hydrostatic Sage 



Leaky Memory storing, 

 Or when groaning yesterday 



Needlessly distracted 

 By some bright erratic ray, 



Through a sphere refracted, 



Then the quick words, oft suppressed, 



In my fauces fluttered ; 

 Thoughts not yet in language drest 



Pleasing to be uttered. 

 He that neatly gilds the pill 



Hides the drug but vainly, 

 So, in chance-sown words, I will 



Speak the matter plainly. 



Men there are, whose patient minds, 



In one object centred, 

 Wait, till through their darkened blinds 



Truth has burst and entered. 

 Then, that ray so barely caught 



Joyfully absorbing, 

 They behold the realms of Thought 



Into Science orbing. 



Thus they wait, and thus they toil, 



Thus they end in knowing, 

 Like good seed in kindly soil 



Taking, root and growing. 

 Men there are whose ambient souls, 



In rapt Intuition, 

 Seize Creation as it rolls, 



Whole, without partition. 



