Life Is Not Having And

O Born In Days When Wits Were Fresh And Clear, And Life Ran Gaily As The Sparkling Thames; Before This Strange Disease Of Modern Life, With Its Sick Hurry, Its Divided Aims, Its Heads O'ertax'd, Its Palsied Hearts, Was Rife.

Because Thou Must Not Dream, Thou Need Not Despair.

Art Still Has Truth. Take Refuge There.

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

Still Bent To Make Some Port He Knows Not Where, Still Standing For Some False Impossible Shore.