His chosen comrades thought at school

He must grow a famous man;

He thought the same and lived by rule,

All his twenties crammed with toil;

‘What then?’ sang Plato’s ghost, ‘what then?’

Everything he wrote was read,

After certain years he won

Sufficient money for his need,

Friends that have been friends indeed;

‘What then?’ sang Plato’s ghost, ‘what then?’

All his happier dreams came true –

A small old house, wife, daughter, son,

Grounds where plum and cabbage grew,

Poets and Wits about him drew;

‘What then?’ sang Plato’s ghost, ‘what then?’

‘The work is done,’ grown old he thought,

‘According to my boyish plan;

Let the fools rage, I swerved in nought,

Something to perfection brought;’

But louder sang that ghost ‘What then?’’