Émile Zola
Right glad am I that in this sunless spot
Some call the world, some heaven, some grimmest hell,
One man has left in falsehood's citadel
Ass Custom's foul old shapeless form to rot,
Then pointed out what is, and what is not,
In words that through the centuries still will tell
Till all men own that what is true is well
To speak, to read, without one blank or blot
Right glad am I that, in this world of lies,
Where rough worth fails and polished fraud succeeds
And brazen-browed imposture fronts the skies
While on right's forehead the fierce thorn-crown bleeds,
One man at least has dared to seek the prize,
Eternal truth beyond all gods and creeds.
Some call the world, some heaven, some grimmest hell,
One man has left in falsehood's citadel
Ass Custom's foul old shapeless form to rot,
Then pointed out what is, and what is not,
In words that through the centuries still will tell
Till all men own that what is true is well
To speak, to read, without one blank or blot
Right glad am I that, in this world of lies,
Where rough worth fails and polished fraud succeeds
And brazen-browed imposture fronts the skies
While on right's forehead the fierce thorn-crown bleeds,
One man at least has dared to seek the prize,
Eternal truth beyond all gods and creeds.
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