I
In this dizzy age, on Gaia’s strand
True goodness raises barely a flutter
While the fluffy things of rattle and flare
Attract, but go not much further
II
But good is good and there’s a need
For kindness, true words and honour
For the earth is only a dreary sphere
With lies and doubt and doubter
III
Yet the golden art, in this vulgar day
Brings the cynics and the questions
And at every turn, with crooked smile
With thorny words, revile
IV
But goodness bears its own return
When the dross is long forgotten
So, be true to you and to all other men
For at the evening call, what then?