In the Society of Dead Poets

Good night, Sweet William
May flights of Princes sing thee
To thy rest.
There on the barge to Avilion
Sailing over the horizon’s crest
The children of the summers end
Gather in the dampened grass
Where the quality of mercy, like peace
Comes strained through the dust of stars.
Tilters at windmills all. Yeats said it best:
A terrible beauty is born with those who go
Where midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow.



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