Do Noble Things, Not Dream

Oh! That We Two Were Maying Down The Stream Of The Soft Spring Breeze; Like Children With Violets Playing, In The Shade Of The Whispering Trees.

And Now I'm Old And Going--i'm Sure I Can't Tell Where; One Comfort Is, This World's So Hard, I Can't Be Worse Off There

Never Trample On Any Soul Though It May Be Lying In The Veriest Mire; For That Last Spark Of Self-respect Is Its Only Hope, Its Only Chance; The Last Seed Of A New And Better Life: The Voice Of God That Whispers To It: "you Are Not What You Ought To Be, And You Are Not What You Can Be. You Are Still God's Child, Still An Immortal Soul. You May Rise Yet. And Fight A Good Fight Yet, And Be A Man Once More, After The Likeness Of God Who Made You, And Christ Who Died For You!

The Invitation, To Tom Highes What We Can We Will Be, Honest Englishmen. Do The Work That's Nearest, Though It's Dull At Whiles, Helping, When We Meet Them, Lame Dogs Over Stiles.

Did Not Learned Men, Too, Hold, Till Within The Last Twenty-five Years, That A Flying Dragon Was An Impossible Monster? And Do We Not Now Know That There Are Hundreds Of Them Found Fossil Up And Down The World? People Call Them Pterodactyles: But That Is Only Because They Are Ashamed To Call Them Flying Dragons, After Denying So Long That Flying Dragons Could Exist.