William Alexander

Fons Juventutis

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No time shall want its verse superbly wrought,
For aye sweet Poesy renews her youth,
Hangs songs like hawthorn from the sharpest thought,
And daisies o'er the ploughshare track of Truth.
And aye let Science disenchant at will,
And set her features free from passion's trace,
A new enchantment waits upon her still,
New lights of passion fall upon her face.
And aye as Poesy is said to die,
Her resurrection comes. She doth create
New heaven, new earth, an ampler sea and sky,
A fairer Nature, and a nobler fate;
For stealth of Science, poverty of Fact,
Indemnifies herself in gold of song,
And claims her heritage in that blue tract
Of land which lies beyond the reach of wrong.
And being divine, believeth the Divine,
And being beautiful, creates the fair,
And always sees a further mountain line,
And stands delighted on a starrier stair.

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