With Mayflowers on our swords and shields
We'll learn to babble o' green fields,
Like Falstaff, whom good humor yields
A place still in its charity.
Visions will come at times—I note
One with a cool white delicate throat—
Of names that shine on men remote,
And dreams of high endeavoring.
Care not for these, nor care to roam
Ulysses o'er the beckoning foam.