Children of the Night

Dear Friends

     Dear friends, reproach me not for what I do,
     Nor counsel me, nor pity me; nor say
     That I am wearing half my life away
     For bubble-work that only fools pursue.
     And if my bubbles be too small for you,
     Blow bigger then your own:  the games we play
     To fill the frittered minutes of a day,
     Good glasses are to read the spirit through.

     And whoso reads may get him some shrewd skill;
     And some unprofitable scorn resign,
     To praise the very thing that he deplores;
     So, friends (dear friends), remember, if you will,
     The shame I win for singing is all mine,
     The gold I miss for dreaming is all yours.