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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=507049" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To The Reader Of ‘University Notes’</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah yes, we know what you're saying,<br>As your eye glances over these Notes:<br>'What asses are these that are braying<br>With flat and unmusical throats?<br>Who writes such unspeakable patter?<br>Is it lunatics, idiots—or who?'<br>And you think there is 'something the matter.'<br>Well, we think so too.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We have sat, full of sickness and sorrow,<br>As the hours dragged heavily on,<br>Till the midnight has merged into morrow,<br>And the darkness is going or gone.<br>We are Editors. Give us the credit<br>Of meaning to do what we could;<br>But, since there is nothing to edit,<br>It isn't much good.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Once we shared the delightful delusion<br>That to edit was racy and rare,<br>But we suffered a sad disillusion,<br>And we found that our castles were air;<br>We had decked them with carvings and gildings,<br>We had filled them with laughter and fun,<br>But all of a sudden the buildings<br>Came down with a run.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not a trace was there left of the carving,<br>And the gilding had vanished from sight;<br>But the 'column' for matter was starving,<br>And we had not to edit—but write.<br>So we set to and wrote. Can you wonder,<br>If the writing was feeble or dead?<br>We had started as editors—Thunder!<br>We were authors instead.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We'd mistaken our calling, election,<br>Vocation, department, and use;<br>We had thought that our task was selection,<br>And we found that we had to produce.<br>So we sigh for release from our labours,<br>We pray for a happy despatch,<br>We will take our last leave of our neighbours,<br>And then—Colney Hatch.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We are singing this dolorous ditty<br>As we part at the foot of the stairs;<br>We cannot but think it's a pity,<br>But what matter? there's nobody cares.<br>Our candle burns low in its socket,<br>There is nothing left but the wick;<br>And these Notes, that went up like a rocket,<br>Come down like the stick.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ever to be the best. To lead<br>In whatsoever things are true;<br>Not stand among the halting crew,<br>The faint of heart, the feeble-kneed,<br>Who tarry for a certain sign<br>To make them follow with the rest—<br>Oh, let not their reproach be thine!<br>But ever be the best.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For want of this aspiring soul,<br>Great deeds on earth remain undone,<br>But, sharpened by the sight of one,<br>Many shall press toward the goal.<br>Thou running foremost of the throng,<br>The fire of striving in thy breast,<br>Shalt win, although the race be long,<br>And ever be the best.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And wilt thou question of the prize?<br>'Tis not of silver or of gold,<br>Nor in applauses manifold,<br>But hidden in the heart it lies:<br>To know that but for thee not one<br>Had run the race or sought the quest,<br>To know that thou hast ever done<br>And ever been the best.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+Fuller+Murray">Robert Fuller Murray</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=507049" data-title="To The Reader Of ‘University Notes’ de Robert Fuller Murray" data-description="Ah yes, we know what you're saying,
As your eye glances over these Notes:
'What asses are these that are braying
With flat and unmusical throats?
Who writes such unspeakable patter?
Is it lunatics, idiots—or who?'
And you think there is 'somethi..."></div>
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