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poetry, mood (-)
"What shall we do to be real?" they cried,
"What shall we do to be real?
"We none of us feel, though we look so nice,
"And talk of the vague ideal."
And all of them seemed to know so much,
But none of them laughed or sang;
And none of the fires had ever a blaze,
And none of the bells e'er rang.
And people walked and talked of life,
And all of them looked so grave;
Yet none of them ever had life, my dear,
Or ever a soul to save.
---Lucy Clifford, "The Paper Ship"
