Poem by Alice Meynell

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?

1. The October Redbreast
2. Singers to Come
3. Parentage
4. Spring on the Alban Hills
5. A Comparison in a Seaside Field

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