Be Neither Saint Nor Sophist-led,

The Will Is Free; Strong Is The Soul, And Wise, And Beautiful; The Seeds Of Godlike Power Are In Us Still; Gods Are We, Bards, Saints, Heroes, If We Will!

What Shelter To Grow Ripe Is Ours? What Leisure To Grow Wise?

Creep Into Thy Narrow Bed, Creep, And Let No More Be Said!

Most Men Eddy About Here And There-eat And Drink, Chatter And Love And Hate, Gather And Squander, Are Raised Aloft, Are Hurled In The Dust, Striving Blindly, Achieving Nothing; And Then They Die- Perish;-and No One Asks Who Or What They Have Been.

Time May Restore Us In His Course Goethe's Sage Mind And Byron's Force: But Where Will Europe's Latter Hour Again Find Wordsworth's Healing Power?