Unwilling friend, let not your spite abate

That minister of ministers, Imagination, gathers up The undiscovered Universe, Like jewels in a jasper cup.

One must become Fanatic – be a wedge – a thunder-bolt To smite a passage through the close-grained world.

Mere by-blows are the world and we, And time within eternity A sheer anachronism.

Farewell the hope that mocked, farewell despair That went before me still and made the pace. The earth is full of graves, and mine was there Before my life began; my resting-place.

Business – the world's work – is the sale of lies: Not goods, but trade-marks; and still more and more In every branch becomes the sale of money.

My feet are heavy now but on I go, My head erect beneath the tragic years.