Am I a man at last? I feared to think
Not long ago, that I could ever be
Older than twenty-one. Eternity
Is not more vast if one lean o’er its brink
Than are the cool sane draughts of years we drink
After the brilliance and the ecstasy
Of a decisive year. Majority
We hail; past commoner birthdays we slink.
We love all action that is glorious
It matters little whether, in our aim
We seem to fail or are victorious.
But in the lesser things and lesser hours
We must--how can we?--spend our treasured powers
For duties that can never bring us fame.
_WILFRED CHILDE_
(_MAGDALEN_)