Classic Poem

Seeing we never spied frail Fairyland,
Though small we crouched by bluebells, moon by moon,
And are too late for Lethe's tide; too soon
For that new bridge that leaves old Styx half-spanned:
Nor meekly unto Mecca caravanned;
Nor bugled Asgard, skilled in magic rune;
Nor yearned for far Nirvana, the sweet swoon;
And are from Paradise cursed out and banned:

Let's die back to those hearths we died for. Thus
Shall we be gods there. Death shall be no sev'rance.
In dull, dim chancels, flower new shrines for us.
For us, rough knees of boys shall ache with rev'rance;
For girls' breasts are the clear white Acropole
Where our own mothers' tears shall heal us whole.