Time Is Lord Of Thee:

The Critic Does His Utmost To Blight Genius In Its Infancy; That Which Rises In Spite Of Him He Will Not See; And Then He Complains Of The Decline Of Literature.

They Have Poisoned The Thames And Killed The Fish In The River. A Little Further Development Of The Same Wisdom And Science Will Complete The Poisoning Of The Air, And Kill The Dwellers On The Banks. I Almost Think It Is The Destiny Of Science To Exterminate The Human Race.

Seamen Three! What Men Be Ye? Gotham's Three Wise Men We Be. Whither In Your Bowl So Free? To Rake The Moon From Out The Sea. The Bowl Goes Trim. The Moon Doth Shine, And Our Ballast Is Old Wine.

The Present Is Our Own; But While We Speak, We Cease From Its Possession, And Resign The Stage We Tread On, To Another Race, As Vain, And Gay, And Mortal As Ourselves.

In A Bowl To Sea Went Wise Men Three, On A Brilliant Night Of June: They Carried A Net, And Their Hearts Were Set On Fishing Up The Moon.