|ELCore.Net > Poetry > Catholic Poets > Poems of Alice Meynell|
“. . . reverence for our fathers, with their stores of experiences”
An author whose name I did not note
O our young ancestor,|
Our boy in Letters, how we trudge oppressed
With our “experiences,” and you of yore
Flew light, and blessed!
Youngling, in your new town,|
Tight, like a box of toysthe town that is
Our shattered, open ruin, with its crown
You with your morning words|
Fresh from the night, your yet un-sonneted moon,
Your passion undismayed, cool as a bird’s
O youngling! how is this?|
Your poems are not wearied yet, not dead.
Must I bow low? or, with an envious kiss,
Put you to bed?
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Lane Core Jr. (email@example.com)
Created April 14, 2001; not revised.