Classic Poem

For what is old you nothing care —
" Antiques," you say, but leave you cold;
And yet the sun that gilds your hair
Is more than many aeons old.

The very song I hear you sing
Is little but a variation
Of some foregone primaeval thing —
Some early mortal inspiration!

Ah, never say you hate the old,
It always hides the new within it;
'Twill last until the stars are cold,
The other only stays a minute!