Words Intended for My Sons
Do not ever backward go,
Forward only, carefully though.
Measure every stride
In terms of your own thought,
And, as you find out what they are,
Discard those lies you bought,
For I am here to tell you, friend,
That journeys built on dreams all end
In wakings marked by rude awareness of a truth:
Every splendid, noble dream of youth
Ends buried in the cold, indifferent earth,
While, still hanging in the air,
Drift the ashes of their wishes everywhere.
Only knowing actions give a man his birth.
by Robert Hampton Burt