Читать книгу The New Morning: Poems - Alfred Noyes - Страница 15

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There's but one gift that all our dead desire,

One gift that men can give, and that's a dream,

Unless we, too, can burn with that same fire

Of sacrifice; die to the things that seem;

Die to the little hatreds; die to greed;

Die to the old ignoble selves we knew;

Die to the base contempts of sect and creed,

And rise again, like these, with souls as true.

Nay (since these died before their task was finished)

Attempt new heights, bring even their dreams to birth:—

Build us that better world, Oh, not diminished

By one true splendor that they planned on earth.

And that's not done by sword, or tongue, or pen,

There's but one way. God make us better men.