Two Guides

You, Fitch, are known to be a Deacon— A shining light, a holy beacon Upon the walls of Zion, blazing With an effulgency amazing.

And yet, I think, between the two (Bob Ingersoll, I mean, and you) A man in want of light to read Between the lines of nature’s Creed

Would rather scrutinize Creation By Robert’s clear illumination, Than blind his eyes with smoke and vapor From your infernal sputtering taper.

Though Ingersoll, perchance, had not Of wisdom or of truth one jot, I’d rather miss with him the clew To life than follow it with you.