 | Blackberries |  |
[Religion dead]
Religion dead,Enthusiasm fled,
Poetry finally knock'd on head
With materialistic bludgeon,
How will this world of ours look then?
And Time, that old curmudgeon,
124
Bud of hope and blossom of joy?
Can he deal with him in dudgeon?
Millions of Babes that must be men!
At the end of your three-score years and ten
What sort of a world will ye leave behind?
What sort of a world will your grandsons find?
| Blackberries | |