Man Errs Not That He Deems His

Nor Bring, To See Me Cease To Live, Some Doctor Full Of Phrase And Fame, To Shake His Sapient Head, And Give The Ill He Cannot Cure A Name.

The Working-class Is Now Issuing From Its Hiding-place To Assert An Englishman's Heaven-born Privilege Of Doing As He Likes, And Is Beginning To Perplex Us By Marching Where It Likes, Meeting Where It Likes, Bawling What It Likes, Breaking What It Likes.

Spare Me The Whispering, Crowded Room, The Friends Who Come And Gape And Go, The Ceremonious Air Of Gloom - All, Which Makes Death A Hideous Show.

Calm Soul Of All Things! Make It Mine To Feel, Amid The City's Jar, That There Abides A Peace Of Thine, Man Did Not Make, And Cannot Mar! The Will To Neither Strive Nor Cry, The Power To Feel What Others Give! Calm, Calm Me More! Nor Let Me Die Before I Have Begun To Live.

The Bent Of Our Time Is Towards Science, Towards Knowing Things As They Are.