Who have been educated out of naive responses, br The hoodoo of love, the cinderella of class br Knowing that everywhere man has the same clock face, br the same moody defences br br Against age and the loss of love in the hope of millennimums br Who think too much perhaps of elegance br Or the form of wisdom, having outgrown dreams br Like baby clothes a long while since; br br Wiseacres playing with terrible dolls in the twilight br holding our sides, thinking of mad Loyola br Or that bald maker of roads, the much stabbed Caesar br Till the stars are bright; br br Who cannot live in the Very Lights of the headlines br Or forget the unrehearsed summer of the shires br Because Europe is frightened, quakes like a woman, br Looks wildly behind? br br How shall we live except as plants or fays br Who cannot take ten deep breaths in any crowd? br Neither the whimsical mob, nor those whose better times br Are only a pierrots disguise br br For the disastrous pathos of their present? br What shall we do who cannot place a candle br Before the ikon of the future, nor yet acquiesce br Unconsciously in habit? br br For whom the actor's gesture, the preacher's word br Are not enough being at all times too conscious br Of the shortcomings of motive, who refuse drugs br And the tailspin of madness? br br What shall we do with our hardened arteries br Under the zeppelin shade of catastrophe br but emulate the gloss and selfishness of china br Till the clocks fly away?br br Kenneth Allottbr br