Ah, Love, Let Us Be True To

On The Breast Of That Huge Mississippi Of Falsehood Called History, A Foam-bell More Or Less Is No Consequence.

With Aching Hands And Bleeding Feet We Dig And Heap, Lay Stone On Stone; We Bear The Burden And The Heat Of The Long Day, And Wish 'twere Done. Not Till The Hours Of Light Return All We Have Built Do We Discern.

Our Inequality Materializes Our Upper Class, Vulgarizes Our Middle Class, Brutalizes Our Lower Class.

The Highest Reach Of Science Is, One May Say, An Inventive Power, A Faculty Of Divination, Akin To The Highest Power Exercised In Poetry; Therefore, A Nation Whose Spirit Is Characterised By Energy May Well Be Eminent In Science; And We Have Newton. Shakspeare [sic] And Newton: In The Intellectual Sphere There Can Be No Higher Names. And What That Energy, Which Is The Life Of Genius, Above Everything Demands And Insists Upon, Is Freedom; Entire Independence Of All Authority, Prescription And Routine, The Fullest Room To Expand As It Will.

Ah, Love, Let Us Be True To One Another! For The World, Which Seems To Lie Before Us Like A Land Of Dreams, So Various, So Beautiful, So New, Hath Really Neither Joy, Nor Love, Nor Light, Nor Certitude, Nor Peace, Nor Help For Pain; And We Are Here As On A Darkling Plain Swept With Confused Alarms Of Struggle And Flight, Where Ignorant Armies Clash By Night.