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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? Alice Meynell's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1198 |
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