…from the quills of the dead white poet
William Blake (1757 – 1827)
Youth of delight, come hither,
And see the opening morn,
Image of truth new-born.
Doubt is fled, and cloud of reason,
Dark disputes and artful teasing.
Folly is an endless maze.
Tangled roots perplex her ways.
How many have fallen there!
They stumble all night over bones of the dead,
And feel they know not what but care,
And wish to lead others, when they should be led.
[General Petraeus and General Allen do not have time to read poetry, obviously]