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“The years of illusion are our happy years”    Napoleon

The Man in the Moon, like Pan, is dead,
And with him died our last fond dream –
Romance and poetry have fled.

The moon is nothing but rocks and dust,
Mere craters, mounts and “seas”,
But was it not better and nicer by far
When we thought it was made of cheese?

Gone, too, are the Gods of Ancient Greece,
Olympus no longer their home,
For ‘tis only a barren mountain top,
Where bus-loads of tourists roam.
Agamemnon now has a one-roomed flat,
Cleopatra is god knows where,
While mighty Caesar passes his days
At the old age home near here.

Where are the fairies, where the fauns,
Where are the ghosts that walk,
Where are the dragons with fiery tongues
Or the babes that were brought by the stork?

The world no longer is thought to be flat
No elephant bears its weight,
No ship will from its surface fall,
Or sea-god stay its fate.

Knowledge is power – if put to use,
And man is the measure of all;
But where is Science with its cold, hard facts
When the lonely heart doth call?

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