The world is not likely to tire of an amusement which never repeats itself, of a game which today presents features as novel and charms as fresh as those with which it delighted, in the morning of history, the dwellers on the banks of the Ganges and Indus.
Ours is no bloody battle With woe and horror fraught Our joust is of a gentler kind A measuring of Mind with Mind A tournament of thought
Strange priests are they who never straightly walk But all aslant through sideways passage stalk Who never seek their goals in forward lines But move askew as fraught with sly designs
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