Chapter V

You don't believe the colors of birds And insects are God's painted words To please the master of His herds!

"Mere marks ancestral, once of use, Now useless as an empty cruse-- Derived, but not designed," your truce.

Yet why such skilful pains bestow, That colors _once_ had use, to shew? Vain zeal, since that you cannot know.

Fruitless your words! Is it not plain, "Designed" or not, like April rain, The end achieved _is_ man's high gain?