A fig for the poppies that passion wears,
Fast followed by dull regret:
A fig for the glitter, and gilt, and gaud
That’s won in a tawdry strife,
Filling the world with the clash of swords—
Marring the sweetest of human chords
Born in the valleys where dreamers wait,
Dreaming the dream of Life.
If I own no love for the arts that mould
The minds and the souls of men,