THE flood of utter change is loosed. A space <br />Is ours yet, for its coming to prepare. <br />Shall we build dams with cautious, clumsy care, <br />Or stand with idle hands and frightened face, <br />And so be whirled all broken from our place, <br />And perish with the dams we builded there? <br />Or shall we dig a broad, deep channel, where <br />Most fields may feel the flood's benign embrace? <br /> <br /> <br />Thus turned 'twill be a calm majestic flood <br />Of plenty, peace, and fertilising power, <br />Whose banks fresh flowers of love and joy shall deck. <br />Oppose it: at the inevitable hour, <br />Tumultuous, black with ruin, red with blood, <br />'Twill come--and you shall have no chance but wreck!<br /><br />Edith Nesbit<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-choice-11/
