An Unromantic Poem I Mean To Make,

In Your Power, All The Same. Subject To Your Will And Your Demands. No Longer Free! No! That's A Thought I'll Never Endure! Never.

Don't Use That Foreign Word: Ideals. We Have The Excellent Native Word: Lies.

But I Almost Think We Are All Of Us Ghosts. It Is Not Only What We Have Inherited From Our Father And Mother That “walks” In Us. It Is All Sorts Of Dead Ideas, And Lifeless Old Beliefs, And So Forth. They Have No Vitality, But They Cling To Us All The Same, And We Cannot Shake Them Off. Whenever I Take Up A Newspaper, I Seem To See Ghosts Gliding Between The Lines.

Oh Yes, Right—right. What Is The Use Of Having Right On Your Side If You Have Not Got Might?

Happiness Is Worth A Daring Deed; We Are Both Free If We But Will It, And Then The Game Is Won.