While a boy’s stout heart is beating high,
Like a glad drum in his breast.
Of course I know that it is better to build a cathedral than to make a boot; but I think it better actually to make a boot than only to dream about building a cathedral.—Ellen Thornycroft Fowler.
Ye wise professors of bookish things,
That burden the souls of men,
Go trade your lore for a boy’s glad wings,
And fly to the stars again.
Nor grope through a shrunken, shrivelled world
That the years have made uncouth,
But march ’neath the flaunting flags unfurled