Because Thou Must Not Dream, Thou Need

Goethe In Weimar Sleeps, And Greece, Long Since, Saw Byron 's Struggle Cease.

The Brave, Impetuous Heart Yields Everywhere To The Subtle, Contriving Head.

Below The Surface Stream, Shallow And Light, Of What We Say And Feel Below The Stream, As Light, Of What We Think We Feel, There Flows With Noiseless Current, Strong, Obscure And Deep, The Central Stream Of What We Feel Indeed.

Man Errs Not That He Deems His Welfare His True Aim, He Errs Because He Dreams The World Does But Exist That Welfare To Bestow.

The World Hath Failed To Impart The Joy Our Youth Forebodes; Failed To Fill Up The Void Which In Our Breasts We Bear.