Come, Dear Children, Let Us Away; Down

Be Neither Saint Nor Sophist-led, But Be A Man.

For Poetry The Idea Is Everything; The Rest Is A World Of Illusion, Of Divine Illusion. Poetry Attaches Its Emotion To The Idea; The Idea Is The Fact. The Strongest Part Of Our Religion Today Is Its Unconscious Poetry.

Youth Dreams A Bliss On This Side Of Death. It Dreams A Rest, If Not More Deep, More Grateful Than This Marble Sleep; It Hears A Voice Within It Tell: Calm's Not Life's Crown, Though Calm Is Well. 'tis All Perhaps Which Man Acquires, But 'tis Not What Our Youth Desires.

Years Hence, Perhaps, May Dawn An Age, More Fortunate, Alas! Than We, Which Without Hardness Will Be Sage, And Gay Without Frivolity.

And We Forget Because We Must And Not Because We Will.