"... 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?
