To the young man I would say:
Get out! Look sharp, my boy,
before the roots are down,
before the equations are struck,
before a face or a landscape
has power to shape or destroy.
This land is a lump without leaven,
a body that has no nerves.
Don’t be content to live in
a sort of second-grade heaven
with first-grade butter, fresh air,
and paper in every toilet;
becoming a butt for the malice
of those who have stayed and soured,
staying in turn to sour,
to smile, and savage the young.
If you’re enterprising and able,
smuggle your talents away,
hawk them in livelier markets
where people are willing for roughage,
if patience isn’t your religion,
if you must have sherry with your bitters,
if money and fame are your pigeon,
if you feel that you need success
and long for a good address,
don’t anchor here in the desert-
the fishing isn’t so good:
take a ticket for Megalopolis,
don’t stay in this neighbourhood!