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诗歌原文：
Mankind molded the idea,
Hemingway delivered the message:
Courage is grace under pressure;
And to never mistake motion for action.
Was it something of measure?
Between the delicacy of contempt,
And the manipulating of pleasure?
No mistake can be made.
No notion to naive.
The seeker that sought,
Dares to conceive.
These ramparts our linage marched,
Shuffled their spears and iron.
Like the extension of walls,
Surrounded by the majesty of spires.
How we still subtlety aspire?
All the while transformed;
For valor is still a persona we adorn.
Our vale is the curtain to certainty.
The mirror holding the truths of desire.
How history should be honored by the color of burgundy,
As time still holds our admiration, but always dire.
Courage than is the unfolding;
The end of a weave of all that transpires.
Such an effortless feature.
From the candescent, indescribable inner fire,
To the meddling allure for a force to conspire.
This cavity where we have awakened;
That moment, he suggests, it’s too early to admire.
His caution of the signet.
His need for reciprocity.
His stories of the man of the minute,
A pouring rather the droplet from a spigot.
The generation of man has changed,
Geared with a similarity in mind.
Masterfully his characters would mutter,
To suggest that courage is of the unlikely kind.
More of a stammer, or the happen chance stutter.
This destination requires more than something you utter;
A journeyman affixed to no other.
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