A Cremation of Care for the Illuminists

"Your race, I say, is run. Ere long these woods
Shall look their last upon such peaceful sport
As yours, mere imps of mischief that ye be
And harmless in your playing. Soon this grove
Shall know another presence, soon shall bear
Allegiance to less innocent a folk
Than you, who dwell in air, in trees, in leaves,
In caves, in brooks-your dwellings, as your lives,
Of Nature's fashioning."

-The 1916 Bohemian grove play, 'GOLD'.