The worn Jerome Writes in his study, A dust-clogged dome: Here mind triumphs over body. He thus awaits The bones to rest – In Peter’s gates All earthly thoughts invest, Yet still repents In passing hours: The gloom he vents The aged spirit embowers. Meanwhile to labor (Both means and end The skies to savor) The pensive strokes attend. Clad in thin veil That never leaves The sinews frail, As weeds, the wandering seas. The Vulgate near Lies decked in quilt: The draft too dear For hands of rugged build. Scarce leaves his throne, In scripture lost, Save to condone One visit: the Holy Ghost. Th'hound at his feet, Of saintly clan, Expects no treat: Seldom for beast or man! Both fast on water Per strictest need. *He* states: why quarter In excess of your seed. And so Jerome Writes in his study, Saint to and from – Though worn, yet sound and ruddy.
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