THE DREAMERS
We are the deathless dreamers of the world. Errant and sad, our argosies must go On barren quests and all the winds that blow Lure us to battle where tall seas are hurled. When over us the last ninth wave has curled, We are renascent still. The gods bestow Madness that lifts us on the ebb and flow. The flags of our defeat are never furled.
We were not born to find the golden fleece, Or win some white queen's love, or storm the stars. Yet, by great Pan, we were not born for peace! One prize is ours — beauty, time shall not slay:Terrible beauty from disastrous wars, Mystical beauty from the realms of fey.
Ainslee's Magazine