I might forget ambition and the hunger for success. br I might forget the passion to escape from nothingness. br I might forget the curious dreams of ecstasy that haunt br My fancy day and night. I might forget them. But I can't. br br If I could let the pen alone and leave the inkstand dry, br And forego perpetual effort to be climbing, climbing high, br And lay aside my mad designs to startle and enchant, br I might enjoy the sweet of common living. But I can't. br br I might be just a Philistine, and eat, and drink, and sleep, br And drive a dusty motor and pile money in a heap, br And let the stream of life run through my brain and be forgot. br If I did, I might be happier. I might—and I might not.