I have grown weary of the idle show
    Of pompous castle and pretentious court,
Of churches—dingy wrecks of long ago—
    Of swords and guns in arsenal or fort.

I sicken at the sight of tarnished toys,
    Of dead-and-buried mistresses of kings,
Of spears of warring barons—bearded boys
    Who fumed and fought for cheap and childish things.

I care not for the saint of mythic fame,
    Who wore brass haloes on an empty head,
The so-called patriot, who in Freedom's name,
    Heaped neighboring lands with hillocks of the dead.

But here lies one, the brave, the great, the good,
    Worth all the kings and queens the whole world round;
Make bare your head in reverential mood,
    For here indeed you tread on Holy Ground.

His life, from selfish earthly motives purged,
    Was consecrated unto you and me;
He took the blow, that we might go unscourged,
    And wore the chains that we might wander free.

He found the long-lost Pleiad, Saturn's band,
    And brought Jove's moons to yonder Tuscan hill—
The second Joshua, at whose command
    The heavens ceased turning and the sun stood still.

The moon in starry-frosted skies of night
    Shall write in splendor Galileo's name,
And sun to sun at noon and morning light
    Shall blazon heaven with Galileo's fame.