To Antiquity
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?
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?
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