Lay your sleeping head, my love, Human on my faithless arm; Time and fevers burn away Individual beauty from Thoughtful children, and the grave Proves the child ephemeral: But in my arms till break of day Let the living creature lie, Mortal, guilty, but to me The entirely beautiful.
“Cry, the beloved country, for the unborn child that is the inheritor of our fear. Let him not love the Earth too deeply. Let him not laugh too gladly when the water runs through his fingers, nor stand too silent when the setting sun makes the veld red with fire. Let him not be too moved when the birds of his land are singing, nor give too much of his heart to a mountain or a valley. For fear will rob him of all if he gives too much.”—Alan Paton (via callyourbluff)