Bohemia, o'er thy unatlased 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 of 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.

Poems of reflection. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago, M.A. Donohue & company [c1905].

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