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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