Classic Poem

Alas, how many years have flown
Since first your silvery note I sounded
And on a cycle of my own
First o'er the bumps in boyhood bounded,
And felt, like Icarus, the delight
Of suddenly acquiring flight.

The roads were peaceful then; no noise
More strident than your ring intruded,
And bells of other little boys
Who also cycled (as a few did),
And those of elder people who
Sedately pedaled two-by-two.

But the inventive brain of man,
As restless as the winds that fan it,
Is always making some new plan
To work commotion on our planet;
Especially if it thinks we need
Devices for increasing speed…

When in the future I retire
(So runs my fanciful reflection)
And find some land of heart's desire
Where everything will be perfection,
Motors shall vanish like a dream
And cycles be once more supreme.