To a Poet a
Thousand Years Hence
I who am dead a thousand
...And wrote this sweet archaic song,
Send you my words for messangers
...The way I shall not pass along.
I care not if you bridge
...Or ride secure the cruel sky,
Or build consummate palaces
...Of metal or of masonry.
But have you wine and
...And statues and a bright-eyed love,
And foolish thoughts of good and ill,
...And prayers to them who sit above?
How shall we conquer?
Like a wind
...That falls at eve our fancies blow,
And old Maeonides the blind
...Said it three thousand years ago.
O friend unseen, unborn,
...Student of our sweet English tongue,
Read out my words at night, alone:
...I was a poet, I was young.
Since I can never see
...And never shake you by the hand,
I send my soul through time and space
...To greet you. You will understand.