To Antiquity

“. . . 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 toys—the town that is
Our shattered, open ruin, with its crown
   Of histories;
You with your morning words
   Fresh from the night, your yet un-sonneted moon,
Your passion undismayed, cool as a bird’s
   Ignorant tune;
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?

Webpage © 2001 ELC
Lane Core Jr. (
Created April 14, 2001; not revised.