Archæology
MEN find Time’s keepsakes of an age forgot
Hid in the nooks and crannies of the earth, —
A flint, a statue in a buried grot, —
And hail with reverence their second birth.
They hear, while standing with uncovered head,
Echoes of lives, whose souls, perhaps, are dead.
Hid in the nooks and crannies of the earth, —
A flint, a statue in a buried grot, —
And hail with reverence their second birth.
They hear, while standing with uncovered head,
Echoes of lives, whose souls, perhaps, are dead.
But we have chanced upon a wondrous thing,
The sweetness of a life that, slighted there,
Dreamed itself over from a bygone spring,
An idyl fresh from Arcady the fair, —
Dear, from the Golden Age our lore is lent,
Its heart still young, its essence still unspent.
The sweetness of a life that, slighted there,
Dreamed itself over from a bygone spring,
An idyl fresh from Arcady the fair, —
Dear, from the Golden Age our lore is lent,
Its heart still young, its essence still unspent.
“ How do you think it understood our speech ?
How did it know us as we loitered by ?
Do we remind it of those two whose reach
It fluttered from ? ” So questions she, but I:
“We woke it, dear; a sleeping beauty this,
That slept and waited for us both to kiss.”
How did it know us as we loitered by ?
Do we remind it of those two whose reach
It fluttered from ? ” So questions she, but I:
“We woke it, dear; a sleeping beauty this,
That slept and waited for us both to kiss.”
W. T.