Where are the Poets, unto whom belong
       &nbsp The Olympian heights; whose singing shafts were sent
       &nbsp Straight to the mark, and not from bows half bent,
       &nbsp But with the utmost tension of the thong?
Where are the stately argosies of song,
       &nbsp Whose rushing keels made music as they went
       &nbsp Sailing in search of some new continent,
       &nbsp With all sail set, and steady winds and strong?
Perhaps there lives some dreamy boy, untaught
       &nbsp In schools, some graduate of the field or street,
       &nbsp Who shall become a master of the art,
An admiral sailing the high seas of thought,
       &nbsp Fearless and first and steering with his fleet
       &nbsp For lands not yet laid down in any chart.