An odeit reads:
These hymns of the church
Whose verses lumber and lurch
Against those mellifluous rows
Of poetry seem they but prose
And the psalms too,
Had noticed it, you?
One man called them rocks in a sling
Which crush to dust each passionate thing
These, oddly metered as well
Drive hard to the border of hell
Whereat they stay, but cease to despair
Smashing the gates that stand brazenly there.