| To Antiquity |
“. . . reverence for our fathers, with their stores of experiences”
An author whose name I did not note |
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O our young ancestor,
Our boy in Letters, how we trudge oppressed
With our “experiences,” and you of yore
Flew light, and blessed!
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Youngling, in your new town,
Tight, like a box of toys—the town that is
Our shattered, open ruin, with its crown
Of histories;
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You with your morning words
Fresh from the night, your yet un-sonneted moon,
Your passion undismayed, cool as a bird’s
Ignorant tune;
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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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