by Patience Worth
What will the new day find
That comes some ages hence?
That were the scribing of thy hand;
Wisdoms that are rusted with age-
Yet glinting with smug sureness.
"Untutored being of the Past,"
That day their lips shall speak, "What!
'In that dread day of dark unenlightenment,
Thou e'en didst sup some potent potion,
Which distilled within thy soul such wisdom?
Clothed most ungainly didst thou stalk
Strange days tortured with complications,
Where nay meant naught save yea,
And yea meant surely nay! Where striving souls
Betuned their lays of base materials-
Making much of Pot and Potter, less of wine;
Where fat words reclined upon a couch
Of little meaning; and heraldry, forsooth!
Forgot its valor choosing rather to discourse
In lengthy prelude o'er a statement, that
A fool might make in simpering words of three I"
"Poor spirit, thus beclouded! Doomed to rove
The ages past; the lancet of thy wisdom
Would ope not e'en a festered folly!"
And when with tutored eye they shall behold
The paeans of the mighty, souls that sang
Within thy day-"Oh, woeful, wrangling word!"
Their lips shall speak, and they shall fall
To casting letters to the sky,
And let them make their musics at their will!-
This is thy doom, oh brother of Today!
Last updated January 14, 2019