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?