Bohemia

 Bohemia, o'er thy unatlassed borders 
How many cross, with half-reluctant feet, 
And unformed fears of dangers and disorders, 
To find delights, more wholesome and more sweet 
Than ever yet were known to the "elite.
"

Herein can dwell no pretence and no seeming; 
No stilted pride thrives in this atmosphere, 
Which stimulates a tendency to dreaming.
 
The shores of the ideal world, from here, 
Seem sometimes to be tangible and near.


We have no use for formal codes of fashion; 
No "Etiquette f Courts" we emulate; 
We know it needs sincerity and passion 
To carry out the plans of God, or fate; 
We do not strive to seem inanimate.


We call no time lost that we give to pleasure; 
Life's hurrying river speeds to Death's great sea; 
We cast out no vain plummet-line to measure 
Imagined depths of that unknown To-Be, 
But grasp the Now, and fill it full of glee.


All creeds have room here, and we all together 
Devoutly worship at Art's sacred shrine; 
But he who dwells once in thy golden weather, 
Bohemia--sweet, lovely land of mine-- 
Can find no joy outside thy border-line.

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