FOR what is old you nothing care -- 'Antiques,' you say, but leave you cold; And yet the sun that gilds your hair Is more than many aeons old. The very song I hear you sing Is little but a variation Of some foregone primaeval thing -- Some early mortal inspiration! Ah, never say you hate the old, It always hides the new within it; 'Twill last until the stars are cold, The other only stays a minute! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE POSY RING by CLEMENT MAROT BEHIND THE LINE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN TO HIS EXCELLENCY by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES SELFISHNESS by MARGARET E. BRUNER A FLOWER OF THE FIELDS by MADISON JULIUS CAWEIN THE CANTERBURY TALES: THE SUMMONER'S PROLOGUE by GEOFFREY CHAUCER |